sity  of  California 
;hern  Regional 
>rary  Facility 


KATE  and  VIRGIL  D.  BOYLES 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 


By  the  Same  Authors 

LANGFORD  OF  THE  THREE 
BARS.  A  Fighter  of  the  Right 
Sort.  With  pictures  in  color  and 
cover  design  by  N.  C.  Wyeth. 
Crown  8vo.  Second  Edition.  $1.50. 


A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 
PUBLISHERS 


Standing  thus,  dumb,  while  twilight  crept  over  all  the  land  " 

(Page  ITS') 


THE 

HOMESTEADERS 


BY 
KATE   AND   VIRGIL  D.  BOYLES 

AUTHORS  OF  "  LAKGFORD  OF  THE  THREE  BARS  " 


With  Four  Illustrations  in  Full  Color  by 
MAYNARD  DIXON 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 
1909 


COPYRIGHT 
A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 

1909 

Published  September  11,  190» 
Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England 

AU  Right*  Retervcd 


?f)t  I.ahr«i6r 
R.  R.  DONNELLEY  *  SONS  COMPANY 
CHICAGO 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  JOSEPHINE  CARROLL 11 

II  NEIGHBOR  NUMBER  Two 81 

HE  THE  BEGINNING  OF  A  QUARREL    ....  47 

IV  ONJIJITKA 60 

V  A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER  AND  A  RESCUE     .     .  73 

VI  AT  THE  RANCH  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN-UP      .  88 

VII  ONJIJITKA  MAKES  A  DISCOVERT    ....  98 

Vin  CARROLL  CALLS  ON  His  NEIGHBOR     .     .     .  112 

IX  UP  THE  MISSOURI 123 

X  THE  CONTEST 138 

XI  THE  BIG  GULCH 163 

XII  HONOR  AMONG  THIEVES 181 

XIII  THE  TRAGEDY  AT  THE  HOMESTEAD     .     .     .  208 

XIV  THE  NEXT  MORNING 230 

XV  THE  LONG  CHASE 242 

XVI  ONJIJITKA'S  LAMENT 251 

XVII  BURRINGTON  JOINS  THE  CHASE        ....  263 

XVIII  THE  BROKEN  KEY  DESERTED 276 

XIX  HENRY  CONFESSES 286 

XX  THE  END  OF  THE  LONG  CHASE     ....  306 

XXI  THE  HOMESTEADER   .  328 


2134296 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


Standing  thus,  dumb,  while  twilight   crept  over 
all  the  land  ".  .....    Frontispiece 

How  do  you  do  ? '  answered  the  stranger,  in  a 
clear,  sweet  voice "          .          .          .          .          .62 

Saddle  and  rider  shot  through  the  air  "         .          .      154 

The  young  ranchman  dealt  death  fairly  and  truly 
to  the  slayer  of  his  friend  "      ....     326 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

CHAPTER  I 

JOSEPHINE  CARROLL 

R  the  first  time  since  she  had  come  to  the 
Northwest  country,  Josephine  Carroll  felt 
lonely.  It  was  a  strange  feeling,  under  the 
circumstances,  and  unexplainable.  Jack  was 
there  —  in  that  very  room  —  with  his  idle  hands 
clasped  behind  his  head,  his  feet  upon  the  window 
sill,  his  gaze  upon  the  near  hills,  seeing  visions. 
She  had  thought  that  when  the  old,  close  com 
panionship,  a  year  broken,  should  be  renewed, 
she  could  never  be  lonely  again.  It  was  the  day 
that  made  her  restless,  or  the  hills,  perhaps. 
More  practical  than  Jack,  she  saw  in  those  huge, 
broken  masses  of  gloomy,  gumbo-stained  hills, 
piled  high  up  into  the  cloudy  dampness,  only  an 
unaccountable  freak  of  that  age  of  unaccounta- 
bilities  when  the  waters  receded  from  the  land; 
but  more  sensitive,  she  was  the  more  depressed 
by  their  overshadowing  nearness.  And  the 

[11] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

day  —  it  was  far  too  warm  for  February,  and 
damp  and  close  and  still.  There  had  been  no 
snow  for  days,  and  yet  the  dead,  winter-bunched 
grass  on  the  steep  slopes  and  in  the  wide  valley 
of  the  river  looked  heavy  and  sodden  because  of 
the  wetness  in  the  air.  Even  the  gaunt,  bared 
branches  of  the  small  cottonwoods,  and  the  rusty 
brown  of  the  cedars  that  followed  the  course  of 
the  ice-bound  river  and  merged  into  the  forest  of 
loftier  elms  and  ancient,  gigantic  cottonwoods 
of  LaDue's  Island,  contributed  their  just  quota 
to  the  general  gloom.  The  air  was  so  still  and 
light  that  the  sound  of  each  echoed  blow  of  the 
axe  in  the  hands  of  the  island  woodchopper  came 
rhythmically  to  the  ears  of  the  homesteaders. 

Josephine  sighed,  and  then,  to  cover  the  sound 
of  it,  yawned  slightly,  and  stooped  to  smooth 
the  ruffled  fur  of  the  big  gray  wolfskin  rug 
that  lay  on  the  floor  by  the  fire.  It  was  a  strong 
hand  that  stroked  the  stiff  bristles  into  submissive 
order,  though  finely  formed  and  unaccustomed 
to  many  things  that  they  now  found  to  do. 
Josephine  herself  was  strong  with  a  fine  strength 
that  showed  itself  in  supple,  assured  movement, 
and  in  the  clear,  steadfast  eyes  that  had  a  trick 
of  looking  at  one  sometimes  so  calmly  and  un- 

[12] 


JOSEPHINE    CARROLL 

questioningly,  and  yet  so  straightforwardly,  that 
the  effect  was  strangely  disconcerting  if  one's 
thought  or  motive  were  not  altogether  honest. 
They  were  brown  with  deeps  in  them,  yet  were 
not  all  of  one  color,  but  were  made  up  of  varying 
shades  of  soft  browns  that  made  them  beautiful. 
Her  hair  was  yellow  —  very  bright  hair  it  was, 
too,  when  the  sun  shone  on  it.  She  herself  called 
it  red,  and  she  wore  it  piled  high  upon  her  head — 
a  proud  head,  with  lifted  chin.  The  lifted  chin 
gave  one  an  erroneous  impression  of  height 
which  Josephine  secretly  coveted.  She  was  not 
tall.  On  the  contrary,  she  was  really  below  the 
medium;  but  she  looked  tall  because  of  the 
lifted  chin  and  the  high  coils  of  shining  hair. 
Jack  could  have  told,  had  he  so  willed,  something 
of  her  passion  for  height  which  was  not  a  late 
and  passing  fancy,  by  any  means,  but  dated  back 
to  the  days  of  long  ago,  and  had  not  been  really 
overcome  until  one  day  in  the  Summer  just  past. 
Down  on  a  particular  old  country  place  in  the 
South  is  a  particular  old  orchard  in  which  is  a 
particular  gnarled  old  apple  tree,  nearly  dead  now 
and  with  good  reason.  On  her  sixth  birthday, 
Josephine  Carroll  had  suddenly  conceived  the 
notion  that  she  was  an  extremely  important  per- 

[13] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

sonage  in  point  of  age.  This  conception  was 
quickly  followed  in  a  natural  sequence  of  thought 
by  a  consuming  desire  to  know  just  how  much 
she  lacked  of  being  as  tall  as  her  mother,  whom 
she  ardently  longed  to  be  like.  She  had  immedi 
ately  confided  this  big  longing  to  Jack,  aged 
nine,  who  was  always  ready  with  a  way  to  help 
her  out  of  her  childish  difficulties.  Oftentimes, 
these  ways  proved  to  be  the  ways  of  a  dreamer 
and  resulted  unhappily;  but  Josephine  always 
forgot  such  times  promptly.  Her  faith  in  Jack 
was  absolute.  On  this  occasion,  they  were  build 
ing  a  play-house  for  the  new  birthday  doll  under 
their  own  particular  apple  tree.  Resourceful 
Jack  had  at  once  scudded  to  the  house  for  ham 
mer  and  nails  and  had  then  driven  a  ten-penny 
deep  into  the  heart  of  the  tree  trunk  just  above 
the  tangled  yellow  hair  of  the  ambitious  little 
maid.  Darkly  designing,  they  had  then  wheedled 
their  mother  into  the  orchard  under  promise  to 
show  her  the  new  play-house.  Smiling  and  un 
suspicious,  obeying  an  urgent  entreaty,  she 
stood  straight  against  the  tree  just  to  see  if  she 
were  not  as  tall  as  the  crotch.  She  did  not  under 
stand  the  childish  ruse  until  she  had  unexpectedly 
torn  her  dainty  summer  gown  on  a  nail  where 

[14] 


JOSEPHINE    CARROLL 

no  nail  should  have  been  and,  glancing  inquir 
ingly  at  the  children  for  explanation,  had  seen 
the  tears  brimming  in  the  eyes  of  one  and  had 
heard  the  jeering,  boyish  crow  of  the  other. 

"  Oh,  me!  But  did  n't  you  think  you  was  big 
just  'cause  you  had  a  birthday!  I'll  have  one 
Christmas  and  then  I'll  show  you  what  it  is  to 
be  really  big,  sis.  What  a  heap  of  growin'  you'll 
have  to  do !  You  '11  prob  'ly  be  as  tall  as  mother 
'bout  when  you're  forty  and  ready  to  die." 

It  had  been  a  great  disappointment  for  the 
proud  six-year-old. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  to  do,  Josephine,"  the 
mother  had  said,  consolingly.  "Every  birth 
day,  you  have  Jack  drive  a  new  nail  over  your 
head  and  we  '11  see  how  many  nails  it  takes  before 
you  reach  this  one  which  I  will  drive  in  now  and 
which  means  me." 

She  had  laughed  merrily,  the  queenly  young 
mother,  as  with  awkward  fingers  she  drove  in 
the  big  nail ;  and  it  had  proved  an  alluring  game 
for  the  child  until  she  was  thirteen  years  old. 
Early  on  this  anniversary  of  her  natal  day,  she 
had  stamped  an  impatient  foot  in  chagrin  at  the 
discouraging  space  of  tree  trunk  left  between  her 
last  nail  and  that  one  away  up  there  nearly  to 

[15] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

the  crotch,  which  meant  her  mother.  There  had 
been  no  one  to  see  her  outburst  of  temper  but 
Jack,  and  Jack  at  sixteen  was  more  loyal  than 
he  had  been  at  nine ;  so  she  had  announced  calmly 
upon  reentering  the  house  that  she  should  never 
drive  another  nail  —  it  was  so  very  childish  —  she 
was  almost  grown  now,  and,  "I  think  I  have 
outgrown  such  babyish  amusements,  don't  you, 
mother?"  she  had  asked  sedately,  and  Jack  had 
only  smiled. 

Josephine  had  kept  her  word  faithfully  until 
her  twenty-fourth  birthday.  She  knew  then  that 
there  could  never  be  a  recurrence  of  the  visits 
to  the  old  apple  tree  and  she  drove  her  last  nail, 
her  eyes  blinded  with  tears  for  her  who  had  in 
stituted  the  childish  game  to  comfort  a  childish 
sorrow,  and  who  had  gone  from  her  since  her  last 
birthday;  and  then  she  smiled  through  her  tears 
to  see  how  much  of  a  lack  there  yet  was  —  and 
she  was  twenty-four  years  old  that  day.  She 
found  a  big  stone  that  had  served  many  different 
purposes  in  the  old  housekeeping  days,  and 
standing  upon  it,  kissed  the  highest  nail  very 
tenderly  before  going  back  into  the  house  to 
write  to  Jack  that  she  would  be  ready  to  join  him 
on  his  claim  at  the  beginning  of  the  New  Year. 

[16] 


JOSEPHINE    CARROLL 

No,  Josephine  was  not  tall,  although  it  may 
be  that  her  longing  after  the  unattainable  nail 
had  helped  to  give  that  little  lift  to  her  chin  which 
was  forever  giving  the  impression  of  greater 
height  than  she  possessed. 

The  wolfskin  which  she  stroked  and  of  which 
Jack  was  so  boyishly  proud,  because  it  was  the 
first  big  game  he  had  brought  down  since  coming 
West,  was  the  only  carpet  the  bare  little  room  af 
forded,  but  there  was  a  good  flooring  wrhich  gave 
the  Southern  boy's  claim  shanty  an  air  of  comfort 
and  substantiality  that  many  another  lacked  in 
those  days  of  the  early  nineties.  The  brother, 
who  had  not  told  the  real  reason  for  Josephine's 
sudden  aversion  to  a  game  of  long  ago,  had 
builded  for  her  the  best  that  he  could,  fifteen  miles 
from  a  railroad,  with  the  river  running  between. 
The  house  was  squarely  and  compactly  built  of 
logs  and  there  were  two  rooms  and  an  attic.  He 
meant  to  stay  and  he  wanted  very  much  that 
Josephine  should  stay,  too.  For  this,  his  old 
friends  and  neighbors  in  the  South  called  him  a 
visionary,  while  his  new  friends  and  neighbors  of 
the  West  called  him  more  or  less  good-naturedly 
a  tenderfoot  and  a  pilgrim.  There  were  those, 
too,  who  designated  him  by  even  harsher  names 

[17] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

than  these,  deeming  it  criminal  incompetency  to 
bring  a  gentlewoman  to  this  land,  bleak  with 
Winter.  But  neither  Jack  nor  Josephine  cared 
a  whit  what  anybody  said  or  thought  concerning 
this  affair  that  they  held  to  be  entirely  their  own. 
Not  only  was  Josephine  determined  to  stay,  but 
she  had  also  filed  on  the  quarter  adjoining  Jack's 
on  the  north  and  meant  to  live  there  when  the 
time  came. 

The  wind  arose  along  in  the  afternoon  of  this 
traditionally  warm  day  in  February.  It  was  a 
warm,  fawning  wind  out  of  the  southwest  until 
it  suddenly  whipped  around  to  the  northwest,  a 
signal  for  the  experienced  to  look  well  to  their 
woodboxes  and  coalbins  and  to  gather  their  fam 
ilies  in  from  herd  and  barn  and  country  school. 
The  wind  increased  in  volume  steadily,  and  pres 
ently  it  began  to  snow.  Not  until  then  did  John 
Calhoun  Carroll,  late  a  gentleman  of  the  Atlantic 
seaboard,  now  a  homesteader  in  the  wonderful 
hill  region  lying  west  of  the  Missouri  River,  turn 
his  eyes,  brown  like  Josephine's,  from  their 
dreamy  contemplation  of  these  same  hills,  re 
luctantly,  and,  stifling  a  yawn,  arise  to  his  feet. 

"There  is  a  storm  coming,  Jo,"  he  said,  care 
lessly.  "I  think  I  had  better  ride  after  the  cattle 

[18] 


JOSEPHINE    CARROLL 

and  get  them  safely  in  the  corral  before  it  gets 
any  worse." 

'  Had  n't  you  better  let  them  shift  for  them 
selves  to-night?"  asked  Josephine,  a  tiny  line  of 
concern  wrinkling  her  forehead.  "Look,  Jack! 
It  is  snowing  so  hard  that  the  hills  are  almost 
blotted  out  already." 

"All  the  more  reason  why  I  should  be  up  and 
doing,"  said  Jack,  cheerfully.  "Let  them  be 
blotted  from  sight ;  just  so  the  Broken  Key  be  not 
blotted  from  existence." 

"Well,  if  you  must—  "  said  Josephine,  reluc 
tantly,  "but  I  do  hate  to  see  you  go.  Here,  tie 
up  your  throat,  button  your  overcoat  up  tight, 
and  be  sure  to  hold  your  head  down  and  do  not 
swallow  any  snow  wind,"  she  cautioned,  solici 
tously. 

Jack  laughed.  He  had  always  laughed  at 
Josephine's  solicitudes,  even  in  the  old  days.  But 
he  liked  them.  He  had  always  liked  them;  but 
he  liked  them  more  than  ever  after  a  year's 
yearning  through  voluntary  exile.  The  rude 
door  slammed  behind  him  violently,  caught  by  a 
quick,  resistless  shock  of  wind  that  came  nosing 
warningly  down  the  valley  of  the  great,  bleak, 
frozen  river.  With  a  laugh  of  indifference,  Jack 

[19] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

ran  Math  the  wind  to  the  corral,  saddled  and 
bridled  his  own  particular  cow  pony,  flung  him 
self  into  the  saddle,  bent  his  head  and  began 
forcing  his  way  northward  through  the  driving 
snow  to  the  succor  of  fifty  head  of  Broken  Key 
cattle,  winter-grazing  beyond  the  big  gulch  three- 
quarters  of  a  mile  away. 

Josephine,  watching  at  the  small,  square  win 
dow,  saw  her  brother  disappear  into  the  white 
void  of  the  storm  to  the  north  and  then  the  chill 
in  the  room  crept  to  her  heart  and  remained  there. 
It  grew  steadily  colder.  The  fine,  driving  snow 
beat  and  swirled  against  the  window,  and,  drift 
ing  in,  lay  unmelted  upon  the  sill.  Conscious  at 
last  of  the  increasing  cold,  she  replenished  the 
fire,  stuffing  huge  sticks  of  driftwood  into  the 
stove  till  the  fire  roared  and  crackled  and  went 
rumbling  up  the  chimney,  lured  to  a  mad  revelry 
of  abandoned  spirits  by  the  persistent  call  of  the 
storm  fiend.  The  renewed  warmth  did  not  heal 
Josephine's  restlessness.  She  put  on  the  tea 
kettle  with  some  vague  idea  of  an  early  supper, 
though  night  was  yet  far  distant.  When  it  was 
singing  bravely  away,  making  a  gallant  effort  to 
outwit  the  pervading  gloom,  she  sat  down  with 
her  darning  materials,  but  paused  dismayed  be- 

[20] 


JOSEPHINE    CARROLL 

fore  the  immensity  of  the  yawning  discrepancies 
in  the  heels  of  Jack's  hose.  Poor  old  Jack, 
there  had  been  no  one  to  mend  for  him  all  these 
many  months ;  but  it  was  far  too  gigantic  a  task 
for  her  to  undertake  now  with  that  terrible  wind 
pounding  on  her  nerves.  The  work  dropped 
from  her  idle  fingers  and  fell  to  the  floor. 

When  an  hour  had  passed,  she  went  to  the 
window  again,  where  a  trembling  seized  her. 
What  had  become  of  the  sheds  and  the  corral  and 
all  the  trees!  Not  even  a  dark,  indistinct  blur 
of  them  showed  through  the  dead  white  pall  that 
lay  between  —  and  Jack  had  not  yet  returned. 
She  opened  the  door  hurriedly  and  stepped  out. 
She  was  immediately  engulfed  in  a  choking  whirl 
of  icy  snow  that  blinded  and  strangled  her,  while 
a  wild  gust  of  wind  driving  down  from  the  hills 
and  sweeping  around  the  corner  of  the  house 
caught  her  unawares  and  forced  her  to  her  knees. 
Gasping,  she  crept  back  into  the  house,  glad  in 
her  heart  for  the  cosy  strength  of  its  stanchly 
constructed  walls  that  scarcely  shook  in  the  grasp 
of  the  mad  wind.  Hitherto  she  had  been  vaguely 
uneasy  because  of  Jack's  long  absence,  but  now 
she  became  seriously  alarmed.  She  began  to 
realize  that  this  was  no  common  storm. 

[21] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

When  another  half-hour  had  passed  away  and 
still  Jack  had  not  returned,  the  conviction  stole 
coldly  over  her  that  her  brave  young  pioneer 
brother,  the  last  of  his  name,  with  whom  and  for 
whom  she  had  so  unhesitatingly  chosen  to  cast  in 
her  lot  in  this  big,  lonesome  Northwest  country, 
was  either  lost  or  some  serious  accident  had  be 
fallen  him.  Nothing  else  could  have  kept  him  so 
long  away  from  her  while  this  strange,  terrifying 
storm  was  screaming  outside.  What  could  she 
do?  Go  in  search  of  him?  The  heartbreaking 
uselessness  of  such  a  course,  when  she  remembered 
how  savagely  and  instantly  she  had  been  choked 
back  when  she  but  stepped  outside  the  door, 
whitened  her  face  with  apprehension  and  brought 
hot  tears  of  impotent  rebellion  to  her  eyes.  Per 
haps  her  island  neighbor  might  help  her.  It  was 
a  comforting  thought  —  this  one  that  she  was  not 
altogether  alone  in  this  infinity  of  blank  white 
ness.  The  island  was  not  really  an  island,  after 
all,  in  winter  time  when  the  water  was  low.  She 
should  not  have  to  cross  any  ice  at  all  —  if  she 
could  only  find  the  way.  She  had  never  been 
there  nor  had  she  ever  seen  the  woodchopper,  but 
she  knew  wrhere  his  log  cabin  was  —  one  could  see 
the  light  of  it  at  night  when  the  forest  was  bare, 

[22] 


JOSEPHINE    CARROLL 

—  and  she  knew  also  the  law  of  the  hanging  latch 
string  in  the  plains  country.  More  than  all,  she 
knew  that  she  could  no  longer  sit  idle  and 
sheltered  while  Jack  battled  for  his  very  breath, 
maybe,  out  there  in  the  swirl  of  the  snow.  Even 
if  she  died  for  it,  she  must  do  something.  She 
had  heard  Jack  say  that  Frank  LaDue  was  an 
old-timer  —  surely  then  he  knew  the  ways  of  such 
storms  as  this  one  and  would  know  how  to  go 
about  instituting  a  search  for  a  missing  man.  If 
she  could  only  find  the  way!  Well,  at  least  she 
could  try  to  find  it. 

She  went  about  her  preparations  very  care 
fully.  She  had  felt  the  icy  touch  of  the  storm 
once  and  it  had  not  been  a  pleasant  experience. 
She  put  on  her  riding  leggings,  overshoes,  and 
heavy  jacket,  wrapped  her  head  and  throat  well 
in  a  big  shawrl,  stuffed  the  stove  full  again  from 
the  dwindling  pile  of  driftwood,  opened  the  door 
and  stepped  out.  Instantly,  her  mouth  and  eyes 
were  filled  with  the  fine  driving  ice  particles  and 
she  was  forced  to  steady  herself  by  holding  des 
perately  to  the  door  knob  while  she  tried  to  cough 
up  the  cold  wind  and  snow  that  was  choking  her. 
Before  making  a  fresh  start,  she  let  the  shawl 
fall  over  her  face  and  found  breathing  easier, 

[23] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

although  now  she  must  needs  pick  her  way  from 
memory  and  intuition  northward  along  the  river, 
then  across  the  rough,  dry  bed  of  the  slough,  and 
again  northward  into  the  heart  of  the  heavily 
timbered  island,  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind  almost 
all  the  way. 

Many,  many  times  she  stumbled  and  fell,  but 
always  she  picked  herself  up  and  fought  on. 
Sometimes  she  put  back  the  shawl  from  before 
her  face  in  order  not  to  lose  her  slight  knowledge 
of  location.  Always  she  held  her  course  close 
to  the  trees  along  the  bank  in  order  to  keep  the 
direction.  She  was  soon  very  tired.  She  won 
dered  if  she  might  not  lie  down  and  rest  for  a 
minute.  It  would  give  her  strength  to  press  on. 
She  fought  this  drowsy  inclination  desperately 
for  a  long  time,  but  it  would  have  conquered  her 
presently  had  she  not  been  all  at  once  conscious 
of  a  slight  surcease  in  the  beat  of  the  ice- 
impregnated  air  against  her  and  wonderingly  saw 
before  her  a  dim  dark  outline  showing  but  haunt  - 
ingly  through  the  heavy  meshes  of  the  curtain 
of  the  storm.  When  she  realized  that  this  must 
be  the  house  she  was  seeking,  she  gave  a  little 
sob  of  relief  and  went  stumblingly  up  to  the 
door.  It  was  opened  almost  instantly. 

[24] 


JOSEPHINE    CARROLL 

"Blamed  if  it  ain't  you!"  said  the  owner  of  the 
shanty,  wonderingly,  and  as  if  the  dishevelled 
and  exhausted  young  creature  on  his  doorstep 
had  been  very  lately  in  his  musings.  He  stared 
at  her  curiously,  regardless  of  the  biting  and 
laden  wind  that  pushed  its  way  into  the  room, 
snapped  at  some  saucepans  on  the  table  and  sent 
them  crashing  to  the  floor. 

"I  think  —  I  had  better  —  I  think  —  you  must 
let  me  in,"  said  Josephine,  stammeringly,  glanc 
ing  forlornly  at  the  big  figure  in  the  doorway, 
so  effectually  shutting  in  the  longed-for  warmth 
of  the  untidy,  bachelor  room. 

"Why,  sure,  what  am  I  thinkin'  about?  Come 
along  in  and  thaw  yourself  out  there  by  the  fire," 
said  Frank  LaDue,  after  a  hesitation  that  was 
not  perceptible  to  Josephine  because  of  her  over 
powering  fatigue.  "I  call  that  downright  ornery 
in  me  to  keep  a  poor  little  frost-bitten  doggie  like 
you  standin'  out  in  this  blizzard,  I  do  for  a  fact. 
Just  herd  your  feet  up  there  to  the  stove  and 
make  yourself  to  home." 

Josephine  crept  in  gladly  and  sank  down  upon 
a  chair  wrhile  a  pleasing  stupor  gradually  stole 
over  her  senses.  She  was  speedily  brought  back 
to  the  present,  however,  by  her  host,  who  was 

[25] 


.   THE    HOMESTEADERS 

somewhat  roughly  demanding  of  her  an  expla 
nation  of  the  fool's  errand  that  had  brought  her 
out  in  the  blizzard.  He  still  stood,  and  standing, 
seemed  a  colossal  figure  indeed  to  the  girl  crouch 
ing  by  the  rusty  but  roaring  stove.  His  size  and 
general  air  of  capability  inspired  her  with  hope. 
His  head  almost  reached  the  low,  dingy  ceiling. 
His  hands  were  jammed  down  into  his  trousers' 
pockets.  Josephine  sprang  up,  her  lethargy  slip 
ping  from  her  in  the  shock  of  her  momentarily 
forgotten  but  now  vividly  remembered  purpose. 

"Mr.  LaDue,  it  is  Jack,"  she  began  earnestly. 
"He  started  after  the  cattle,  oh,  a  long  time  ago 
-hours  ago,  I  think  —  and  —  he  has  not  come 
home.  He  is  lost  in  this  terrible  storm.  He  can 
never  find  his  way  through  it.  He  does  not  know 
anything  about  your  kind  of  storms  —  they  are 
so  awful.  Oh,  if  he  had  only  stayed  safely  at 
home!  What  did  the  cattle  matter?" 

"Which  goes  to  show  that  all  the  id  jits  ain't 
dead  yet,"  said  the  islander,  with  what  seemed 
like  heartless  indifference,  taking  his  hands 
from  his  pockets  only  long  enough  to  roll  and 
light  a  cigarette.  "Unless  he  is  already  laid  out 
flat  in  some  gully  where  he  stopped  to  rest." 

"And  it  would  be  useless  for  me  to  try  to  find 

[26] 


JOSEPHINE    CARROLL      . 

him,"  said  Josephine,  shuddering  wofully  because 
of  what  LaDue  had  just  said. 

"You  are  right  there,  my  girl,"  said  LaDue, 
"it  would  be  worse  than  useless.  If  he  can't  find 
his  way,  he  surely  can 't  expect  a  slip  of  a  woman 
critter  to  find  it  for  him.  Like  enough  he  '11  come 
out  of  it  all  right  anyway.  So  stop  worryin'  about 
it,  and  you  can  bunk  right  here  by  the  fire  to 
night  and  in  the  mornin'  you  can  skin  across  the 
slough  good  and  early  and  I'll  bet  you  find  him 
safe  and  sound  in  bed,  wonderin'  where  the  devil 
you  are.  Take  off  your  duds  and  I  '11  get  supper 
ready." 

"I  thought  —  I  hoped —  "  faltered  Josephine, 
and  stopped.  Controlling  herself,  she  went  on 
with  a  quiet  dignity.  "I  had  thought  that  per 
haps  to  you  who  have  lived  in  this  country  so 
many  years  this  might  not  be  so  dreadful  a 
storm  after  all.  I  have  made  a  mistake.  I  do 
not  ask  anything  of  you.  I  must  go  myself." 
She  started  for  the  door  a  little  blindly. 

"Why  did  n't  you  say  that  was  what  you  was 
after  in  the  beginning?"  demanded  her  host, 
gruffly.  "There  ain't  no  more  use  in  my  huntin' 
for  that  there  tenderfoot  in  this  blizzard  than 
there 'd  be  in  lookin'  for  an  unbranded  calf  after 

[271 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

an  Injun  had  been  hangin'  round  for  a  spell,  and 
that 's  as  strong  an  argument  as  I  can  put  up. 
No  tellin'  where  in  thunder  he  is  by  this  time. 
Anyway,  his  chances  o'  showin'  up  safe  and 
sound  are  a  damned  sight  better  than  yours  or 
mine  would  be  o'  runnin'  down  that  yearlin'  and 
ropin'  him  in  this  cussed  storm.  He  comes  with 
the  wind,  but  we  'd  have  to  face  it,  and  God 
A 'mighty  knows  nobody  could  stand  that  long. 
Supposin'  I  managed  to  make  the  gulch  —  he  'd 
ten  to  one  have  passed  me  on  the  way.  Frank 
LaDue  ain't  no  coward  —  but  he  's  only  got  one 
life  to  live  and  he  don't  believe  in  throwin'  it 
away  on  a  fool's  errand." 

"Please  do  not  think  that  I  ask  —  or  expect - 
any  man  to  risk  his  life  for  a  forlorn  hope,"  said 
Josephine,  with  a  trembling  voice.  "I  came  to 
you  because  I  did  not  know  —  the  situation  was 
so  —  desperate  —  and  there  was  no  one  else." 
She  wrapped  her  shawl  about  her  and  again 
started  for  the  door. 

"You  ain't  goin'  out  again,  are  you?  Say, 
I  don't  like  that.  You'd  better  stay.  If  you  get 
lost,  that  kid '11  have  to  answer  for  the  death  o' 
both  o'  you.  You  would  n't  like  that,  would  you  ? 
This  ain't  no  country  for  green  kids  and  women, 

[28] 


JOSEPHINE    CARROLL 

nohow.  It  beats  the  devil  how  some  folks  think 
they  can  cut  away  from  everything  they've  been 
used  to  and  educated  for,  just  set  down  on  a 
God-forsaken  prairie  in  Winter  that  they  don't 
know  nothin'  about,  fold  their  white  hands  and 
expect  bread  and  butter  to  come  a-walkin'  up  to 
'em  on  legs  and  pop  down  their  gullets  like  a 
snake-charmed  bird  without  puttin'  them  to  the 
trouble  o'  chewin',  even.  They  feel  hurt  if  it 
does  n't  come  jest  that  easy.  Some  folks  seem  to 
think  good  money  grows  on  bushes  out  in  this 
here  country.  Well,  mebbe  't  would  if  there  were 
any  bushes  for  it  to  grow  on.  Snow  banks  and 
baked  grass  and  dry  sand  don't  make  a  first-rate 
soil  for  that  kind  o'  crop.  But  about  the  kid. 
If  you  don't  find  him  at  home  in  the  morning, 
well,  there  's  no  earthly  way  o '  helpin '  it  —  and 
no  one  to  blame  but  himself.  You  stay  here  to 
night.  That 's  the  advice  of  an  old-timer  and  it 's 
free." 

Without  a  word  in  reply,  but  with  a  sob  in  her 
throat,  Josephine  turned  and  left  him.  He  fol 
lowed  her  to  the  door  and  watched  her  as  the 
storm  caught  her  up  and  whirled  her  into  its 
midst.  There  was  the  same  curious  smile  upon 
his  face  that  had  been  there  when  he  confronted 

[29] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

this  girl  on  his  threshold.  When  she  had  disap 
peared  into  the  swirl,  he  shut  the  door  and  sat 
down  upon  the  chair  Josephine  had  so  lately 
vacated.  Presently,  he  arose,  reached  for  his  hat, 
twirled  it  around  undecidedly,  sat  down  again, 
rolled  and  lighted  a  fresh  cigarette,  got  up, 
slouched  to  the  door  as  if  still  undecided,  and  put 
his  hand  upon  the  knob. 

As  for  Josephine,  she  made  her  way  with  great 
difficulty  back  to  the  house.  Jack  was  not  there. 
Early  night  was  closing  in.  The  room  was  fast 
growing  cold.  She  replenished  the  dying  fire 
mechanically,  numb  to  all  feeling  but  that  a  weak 
and  untried  girl  stood  alone  in  a  darkening  world 
to  defy  the  cruel  arrogance  of  the  elements  and 
the  cowardly  helplessness  of  man.  Although  it 
was  not  yet  altogether  night,  she  put  a  light  in 
the  window,  steeled  herself  anew  against  the 
despair  that  was  creeping  over  her,  opened  the 
door  and  once  more  stepped  outside.  She  turned 
her  face  resolutely  to  the  north  —  to  find  Jack. 


[30] 


CHAPTER    II 

NEIGHBOR  NUMBER  TWO 

"D  Y  the  time  Jack  reached  the  far  side  of  the 
gulch  where  the  cattle  were  usually  to  be 
found  the  storm  was  in  full  swing.  The  cold 
was  intense.  The  snow  blinded  and  choked  him. 
The  wind  seemed  possessed  of  seven  devils  in  the 
strength  of  its  will  not  only  to  halt  his  further 
progress,  but  to  force  him  back  over  the  way  he 
had  just  come,  for  every  inch  of  which  he  had 
fought  doggedly  and  persistently.  The  like  of 
such  a  winter  storm  he  had  never  seen  or  felt 
before,  but  he  pressed  on  undaunted  by  its 
strange  intensity. 

He  was  a  slender  young  fellow,  but  was  knit 
together  with  muscular  litheness  and  was  perhaps 
as  much  at  home  in  the  saddle  as  any  denizen  of 
the  range,  barring  dexterity  with  the  rope.  He 
had  begun  riding  at  an  early  age  when  his 
slim  brown  legs  scarcely  reached  the  beginning 
of  the  downward  curve  of  the  broad-backed  farm 
horses,  as  he  rode  them  to  water  by  grace  of  the 

[31] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

farm  hands,  who  always  liked  the  daring  little 
chap  well.  The  training  thus  early  begun  was 
continued  through  the  later  years,  when  his  father 
allowed  him  to  ride  the  hunters,  only  occasionally 
at  first;  after  a  while,  whenever  and  wherever 
it  pleased  him.  He  had  not  been  long  in  the 
cattle  country  before  he  discovered  that  there 
was  a  vast  difference  in  temperament  and  train 
ing  between  a  Kentucky  hunter  and  a  range- 
bred,  mongrel  cayuse,  but  he  did  not  hesitate 
in  adapting  himself  to  the  changed  conditions 
in  horse  flesh  and  soon  had  as  complete  a  mastery 
over  the  obstinate  whims  of  his  cow  ponies  as  he 
had  ever  possessed  over  the  daintier  fancies  of 
his  thoroughbreds  of  the  past.  He  was  a  good 
rider.  Seasoned  cowmen  granted  him  that  dis 
tinction  ungrudgingly.  He  had  yet  to  prove  his 
"staying  qualities."  It  was  generally  consid 
ered  only  a  question  of  a  little  time  when  the 
"young  un"  should  have  fretted  away  his  lim 
ited  stock  of  endurance  and  have  slipped  away 
in  a  night  and  the  wide  spaces  would  know  him 
no  more. 

Jack  himself  had  no  doubts  or  qualms  shadow 
ing  his  future.  Even  the  gloom  and  menace  of 
the  storm  pressing  around  him  left  his  sunny 

[32] 


NEIGHBOR    NUMBER    TWO 

spirit  unterrorized.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  for  a 
long  time  that  he  was  in  serious  personal  danger. 
Although  he  could  scarcely  see  an  animal  six 
feet  away,  he  was  conscious  of  no  premoni 
tory  dread  for  his  own  safety.  If  he  could 
only  round  up  his  whole  bunch  —  which  was  not 
so  many  but  that  one  choked  down  and  left 
behind  would  be  a  serious  misfortune  —  and  get 
it  safely  headed  for  home,  he  had  not  the  shadow 
of  a  misgiving  as  to  his  own  ability  to  find  his 
way  with  the  ice-laden  wind  at  his  back  instead 
of  cutting  and  slapping  and  tearing  away  at  his 
face  and  driving  down  his  throat. 

He  could  not  be  sure  that  he  had  all  of  his 
cattle  when  he  finally  headed  for  home,  but  he 
was  growing  strangely  tired  all  at  once,  and 
some  way  it  did  n  't  seem  to  matter  so  much  as  it 
did  a  while  ago,  whether  his  herd  was  saved 
intact  or  whether  two  or  three  dropped  by  the 
wayside.  Cattle  were  only  cattle  anyway.  He 
found  himself  thinking,  with  the  morbid  pathos 
of  one  forever  on  the  outside,  of  Josephine's 
fireside,  of  the  warm  glow  from  the  open 
drafts  of  the  stove,  of  the  good  smell  of  sizzling 
bacon  and  the  taste  of  the  flapjacks  browned 
in  its  gravy.  It  began  to  seem  to  him  as  he 

[33] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

plodded  drowsily  along  that  these  things,  de 
licious  as  they  were,  belonged  to  a  far  distant 
past,  a  past  of  dreams,  unreal,  fast  slipping 
away,  while  he  himself  must  just  trudge  along 
—  and  along  —  through  the  cold,  blinding,  heart 
less  swirl  of  the  snow.  He  shook  himself 
savagely,  resenting  the  physical  weakness  that 
directed  his  thoughts  into  such  morbid  channels. 
Through  the  white  void,  he  could  see  dim,  dark 
shapes  plunging  ahead,  now  appearing,  now  dis 
appearing,  like  frolicsome  ghosts  of  haunted 
slumber,  the  shrieking  of  the  gale  covering  up 
the  sound  of  their  running  footfalls.  The  rain 
of  the  morning  had  now  frozen  into  the  ground, 
which  presented  a  hard,  smooth  surface,  over 
which  the  snow  was  blown  furiously,  skipping 
into  the  air  again,  finding  but  little  resting  place 
on  the  glassy  level.  In  places,  however,  it  had 
begun  to  drift,  especially  in  the  gulches  and 
washouts.  So  completely  was  everything  blotted 
out  by  the  storm  that  the  first  intimation  Jack 
had  that  he  had  reached  the  big  gulch  on  his 
return  journey  was  when  his  cow  pony  with  ac 
customed  feet  took  the  first  downward  slip  of 
the  steep  incline.  There  was  considerable  drift 
in  -the  gulch  through  which  the  horse  floundered 

[S4l 


NEIGHBOR   NUMBER   TWO 

gallantly  while  Jack  gave  him  the  rein  and 
trusted  to  his  instinct  to  pick  up  the  trail  on  the 
other  side  of  the  drift. 

"Suffering  Moses!"  cried  Jack,  suddenly  and 
sharply,  as  he  felt  the  first  shock  of  the  stumble. 
He  jerked  the  loosened  rein  quickly,  but  it  was 
too  late.  At  some  time,  water  had  washed  out 
an  ugly  hole  on  one  side  of  the  path  in  the  bot 
tom  of  the  gulch.  Jack  had  known  that  it  was 
there.  So  doubtless  had  his  horse;  but  in  the 
blinding  storm  it  was  impossible  to  see  it  or  to 
locate  its  position  definitely.  Into  this  washout 
the  pony  stumbled  and  horse  and  rider  were 
thrown  violently  to  the  ground.  The  horse 
scrambled  up  quickly,  but  Jack  lay  quite  still 
for  a  moment,  the  sudden,  sharp  pain  that  seemed 
to  originate  in  his  right  leg  and  then  to  spread 
instantaneously  over  his  whole  body,  obliterating 
all  sense  of  everything  but  the  sense  of  its  own 
agony.  It  was  not  for  long.  Through  the  mists 
of  his  fast  creeping  numbness,  one  thought  stood 
forth  startlingly  clear,  and  that  was  the  absolute 
hopelessness  of  his  situation  should  his  horse 
leave  him  and  go  home  alone.  The  thought 
spurred  him  to  a  desperate  reach  for  the  bridle 
rein.  It  was  too  late.  The  horse,  apparently 

[35] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

unhurt,  had  scrambled  to  its  feet  and  before  Jack 
could  prevent  gave  a  lunge  forward  and  started 
up  the  other  side  of  the  gulch. 

"You  —  you  —  traitor,"  cried  Jack,  aloud,  and 
fell  back  upon  his  bed  of  snow,  despairing,  yet 
with  a  half  smile  on  his  lips  as  if  to  him  there 
was  something  comical  in  the  contemplation  of 
his  utter  helplessness.  He  was  of  a  people  to 
whom  personal  fear  was  a  crime;  but  he  was 
also  of  a  people  who  never  gave  up  —  till  they 
had  to.  He  was  in  intense  pain  —  he  thought 
his  leg  must  be  broken  —  a  pain  that  made  his 
eyes  filmy  with  unseeing  so  that  it  was  not  the 
snow  alone  that  blinded  him.  Even  breathing 
was  pain,  for  he  was  choked  by  the  cutting  snow. 
But  he  did  not  intend  to  lie  there  and  freeze  to 
death  without  an  effort  to  prove  the  futility  of 
all  effort.  Perhaps  he  might  even  crawl  the  rest 
of  the  way  home.  He  should  at  least  try  it  — 
just  as  soon  as  he  recovered  a  little  from  the 
shock  of  his  fall  and  the  pain  of  his  broken  leg. 
Three-quarters  of  a  mile  through  fast  drifting 
snow  did  not  present  a  very  hopeful  outlook,  but 
there  was  nothing  else  left  to  do.  There  was 
no  one  to  help  him  in  all  the  world  except  Jose 
phine.  There  was  no  one  to  miss  him  or  even  to 

[36] 


NEIGHBOR    NUMBER    TWO 

know  that  he  needed  help  —  except  Josephine. 
The  island  woodchopper  was  the  only  man  on  this 
side  of  the  river  for  many  a  mile,  and  there  was  no 
earthly  way  of  his  knowing  his  neighbor's  plight. 
The  scant  half-mile  that  separated  their  cabins 
might  just  as  well  have  been  ten  for  all  the 
comfort  or  aid  one  could  count  on  in  this  isola 
ting  storm.  How  could  LaDue  know  that  he 
had  ridden  into  the  void  when  he,  Jack,  could 
scarcely  discern  one  of  his  own  creatures  six 
feet  away?  No,  there  was  only  Josephine,  and 
the  trouble  was  that  Josephine  would  be  sure 
to  start  out  in  search  of  him  after  a  while.  If  it 
were  not  for  that,  perhaps  he  might  snuggle 
down  in  the  soft  snow  and  rest  —  and  perhaps 
sleep  —  until  morning,  or  at  least  until  the  storm 
fell  away  —  he  was  so  very  tired  —  but  always 
there  was  Josephine.  She  would  start  out — there 
was  nothing  on  earth  that  could  prevent  Jose 
phine's  coming  to  look  for  him  —  he  knew  Jo. 
When  night  came  and  he  had  not  returned, 
she  would  come.  There  was  not  a  doubt  of  it  in 
the  world.  But  she  would  never  find  him.  She 
would  get  lost  herself  and  die  in  the  storm  before 
ever  she  could  come  anywhere  near  the  gulch. 
Even  if  she  realized  the  utter  foolhardiness  of  her 

[37] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

action,  still  would  she  come.  For  this  reason, 
he  must  crawl  home  before  she  started  out  —  if 
he  could.  He  shook  off  the  growing  lassitude 
that  was  fast  fettering  his  limbs,  summoned  all 
his  powers  of  endurance  to  his  aid,  and  began 
the  slow,  tortuous  climb  up  the  side  of  the 
gulch,  dragging  his  useless  leg  painfully  after 
him. 

He  had  almost  gained  the  level  when  he  slip 
ped,  lost  his  hold,  and  slid  back  almost  to  the  bot 
tom  again.  Even  then  he  gripped  his  self-control 
so  tightly  that  his  will  prevented  him  from  losing 
consciousness,  although  he  was  dizzy  with  pain 
and  laboring  for  breath  and  altogether  exhausted 
after  the  gigantic  effort  he  had  made  and  its 
failure.  He  was  in  desperate  straits.  He  knew 
it  well.  He  had  known  it  from  the  moment  his 
grasp  had  fallen  short  of  the  dangling  bridle 
rein.  There  had  been  a  fighting  chance  only. 
He  had  taken  it  and  failed.  The  only  point  to 
be  considered  now  was  whether  or  not  there  was 
any  way  to  keep  oneself  from  freezing  to  death 
until  the  storm  abated.  It  would  probably  fall 
away  towards  morning.  Not  that  it  mattered 
much  —  only  on  account  of  Josephine.  Always 
the  thought  of  Josephine  caused  him  to  struggle 

[38] 


NEIGHBOR    NUMBER    TWO 

free  of  the  almost  overpowering  desire  to  just 
lie  still  and  rest. 

All  at  once,  his  listless  gaze,  in  which  there  was 
no  hope,  was  caught  and  held  by  the  dark  blur 
of  an  overhanging  bank  on  the  north  side  of  the 
gulch  and  a  very  short  distance  away.  He  knew 
by  the  distinctness  with  which  he  could  see  its 
outlines  through  the  white  that  the  snow  was 
drifting  in  front  of  it,  leaving  the  hollow  bare  and 
helping  to  form  a  sort  of  cave  where  he  might 
find  shelter  from  the  snow  and  wind — that  is,  if 
he  could  only  get  there. 

He  did  get  there  at  last,  and  lay  white  and 
panting  close  up  to  the  dirt  side  on  the  north, 
free  from  the  cruel  beat  of  the  wind  and  bite 
of  the  snow  for  the  first  time  since  the  door 
of  the  Broken  Key  had  slammed  behind  him 
—  hours  ago.  The  relief  was  intense.  It  was 
not  for  long,  however.  The  cold  was  bitter 
and  he  had  so  little  strength  left  with  which  to 
fight  it.  His  little  sister  Jo  could  never  find  him 
away  up  here — never — and  how  could  he  ever 
see  her  when  she  came  into  the  gulch  in  search  of 
him  if  she  was  able  to  get  so  far  ?  Well,  if  he  died 
and  Jo  did  not,  there  was  this  comforting 
thought  which  he  meant  to  hug  to  himself  after  a 

[39] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

while  to  make  the  end  easier — there  were  no  bet 
ter  men  nor  more  manly  in  all  the  wide  world 
than  the  men  of  the  range.  They  would  see  to 
it  that  little  Jo  went  safely  home  again  when  it 
was  all  over.  Suffering  Moses!  How  cold  it 
was !  Funny  how  sleepy  he  was  when  it  was  not 
even  dark  as  yet.  Thank  God,  the  pain  in  his 
leg  had  ceased.  It  was  probably  not  broken 
after  all.  Suddenly  he  laughed  a  low,  whimsical 
laugh  at  his  own  expense.  He  had  actually  been 
afraid  that  he  was  going  to  die — he  had  even 
nearly  whimpered  in  maudlin  self-pity  because  he 
had  to  die  so  uselessly — when  instead  of  dying,  he 
was  merely  going  to  sleep.  He  had  mistaken  the 
feeling.  He  was  sleepy,  sleepy,  sleepy,  that  was 
all  —  not  dying. 

"Halloo— o—o—  !  Halloo— o—o—  !  Hal- 
loo— o— o—  !" 

It  was  a  faint  cry  at  first,  but  it  grew  steadily 
louder.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  come  from  one 
direction,  sometimes  from  another  exactly  oppo 
site.  Sometimes  it  was  loud  and  piercing  as  if 
cried  directly  at  the  heap  of  drifted  snow  up 
under  the  dark,  overhanging  bank.  Again,  it  was 
fainter,  as  if  cried  down  the  valley  and  borne 
away  on  the  wind.  But  always  it  grew  stronger. 

[40] 


NEIGHBOR    NUMBER    TWO 

"Halloo— o—o—  !  Halloo— o—o—  !  Hal 
loo—  o—o—  !" 

It  was  a  weird  cry,  sounding  through  the  fast 
gathering  gloom. 

"Halloo— o—o—  !  Halloo— o—o—  !  Hal 
loo — o — o —  !" 

It  was  repeated  many,  many  times  before  it 
gradually  dawned  upon  the  failing  senses  of  the 
young  homesteader  that  this  thing  that  he  heard 
and  had  been  hearing  so  long  was  not  a  phantasy 
of  a  disordered  brain,  but  a  human  voice,  smoth 
ered  and  unnatural,  maybe,  because  of  the  thick, 
undulating  blanket  it  was  compelled  to  penetrate, 
but  a  human  voice  none  the  less — and  a  man's 
voice  at  that.  No  woman — least  of  all,  Josephine 
—had  lung  power  to  sustain  so  vigorous  and  pro 
longed  a  calling,  storm-beaten  as  she  would  be 
after  having  come  so  far.  He  lay  another  minute 
after  his  big  discovery,  wondering  drowsily  what 
the  man  wanted.  Doubtless  he  was  lost,  too. 
Funny  that  he  himself  in  like  straits  had  never 
thought  to  call  for  help.  Perhaps  the  utter  use- 
lessness  of  it  all  had  restrained  him  unconsciously. 
He  had  never  once  thought  to  call  aloud  and  yet 
here  was  a  fellow  creature  yelling  lustily  for  suc 
cor  and  there  was  some  one  to  hear  him.  Per- 

[41] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

haps  had  he  called  -  He  lay  for  another  full 
minute,  idly  pitying  the  man's  plight  before  the 
thought  came  to  him  that  it  might  perhaps  be 
well  to  give  the  poor  fellow  an  answering  hail. 
He  had  found  good  shelter.  He  would  share  it. 
He  sat  up  dizzily,  found  that  he  could  not  bear 
the  new  position,  and  fell  back  again.  The  effort 
had  taken  all  his  reserve  strength  and  he  lay  very 
quiet  for  a  long  time,  placidly  deaf  to  that  in 
sistent  "  Halloo  —  o  —  o  -  '  out  there  in  the 
swirl  of  the  storm. 

"Halloo — o — o —  !  Halloo — o — o — o —  ! 
Halloo  —  o  —  o  —  o  —  !  Jack !  " 

Was  it  possible  that  the  man  said  "Jack"? 
Why,  Jack  was  his  own  name.  Once  more  he 
struggled  to  a  sitting  posture. 

"Halloo — o —  !"  he  cried,  weakly,  conscious 
that  the  cry  which  gave  him  so  much  pain  and 
effort  to  make  was  riddled  and  blown  to  pieces 
long  before  it  reached  half  way  down  the 
gulch. 

"Halloo — o —  !"  he  cried  again,  striving  des 
perately  to  make  his  voice  carry.    "Halloo — o— 
o— !       Halloo— o—o— !       Halloo— o— o— !" 
With  each  repetition,  his  voice  grew  stronger 
—until    at    last    it    was    heard,    for,    "Halloo, 

[42] 


NEIGHBOR   NUMBER    TWO 

where  are  you?"  came  the  shouted  question  im 
mediately  after  his  last  call. 

"Halloo — here — north    bank — just    over— 
his  voice  died  away. 

"Halloo,  there,  keep  calling — I  can't  find  you 
—halloo — o — o —  !     Halloo — o — o —  !     Keep 
calling!" 

The  words  were  fairly  whipped  from  the 
mouth  of  the  seeker,  for  he  was  heading  directly 
up  the  north  bank  in  the  very  face  of  the  wind. 

"Halloo — o —  !"  came  a  faint  response  and 
then  there  were  no  more  answers  to  the  persistent 
calling.  It  had  grown  very  quiet  up  there  on  the 
other  side  of  the  drift. 

When  Jack  regained  consciousness,  there  was 
a  comfortable  feeling  of  warmth  in  his  throat  that 
satisfied  him  for  the  time  being.  Soon  he  felt 
with  surprise  that  he  was  warm  all  over  and  ex 
tremely  comfortable  only  for  that  sharp,  jumping 
ache  in  his  leg ;  and,  how  easy  it  was  to  breathe ! 
The  storm  must  have  fallen  away.  He  opened 
his  heavy  eyes.  Josephine  was  softly  chafing  his 
hands.  He  saw  her  before  he  realized  that  he 
was  lying  upon  his  own  bed  and  that  the  night 
mare  was  ended.  A  brandy  flask  lay  upon  the 
table  by  the  bedside.  A  light  flared  and  splut- 

[43] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

tered  in  the  window.  Listening,  he  heard  the 
howling  of  the  wind  as  it  swept  around  the  cor 
ners  of  the  house.  It  must  be  the  night  of  the 
same  day,  and  yet  he  felt  infinitely  older. 

"I  think  —  my  leg  is  broken,  Jo,"  he  said, 
faintly,  and  added,  smilingly,  "I'm  not  a  bird 
nor  a  chicken  nor  a  dog,  but  I  reckon  you'll  have 
to  draw  on  your  ancient  experience  in  binding  up 
the  wounds  of  our  old  pets  and  practise  on  me. 
I'm  game.  I  promise  not  to  faint.  Let  'er  go, 
Gallagher!"  He  closed  his  eyes  expectantly. 

"A  better  one  than  I  has  done  that  for  you 
already,  Jack,  dear  boy,"  said  Josephine,  turning 
with  a  grateful  smile  to  a  weather-browned,  mus 
cular  young  fellow  standing  quietly  by  the  fire. 
"Your  poor  broken  bones  are  all  nicely  set.  You 
lost  consciousness,  you  know,  up  there  under  the 
bank  and — the  man  who  found  you  carried  you 
home  and  set  your  leg  without  your  knowing  any 
thing  about  it.  But  you  must  n't  talk  any  more, 
Jack.  You  will  work  yourself  into  a  fever  if 
you  do." 

"Lucky  dog — I — to  fall  plunk  into  the  path 
of  a  doctor.  How  did  it  happen,  Jo?" 

"I  do  not  think  our  friend — I  have  n't  learned 
his  name  yet — is  a  doctor.  He  just  knew  how. 

[44] 


NEIGHBOR    NUMBER    TWO 

Will  you  go  to  sleep  if  I  tell  you  how  it  happened? 
Promise  me." 

"All  right.     Let  'er  go,  Gallagher!" 

His  eyelids  drooped  with  drowsiness.  He  saw 
the  big,  still  figure  by  the  fire  through  a  far- 
removing  haze  of  pain-coaxed  sleep. 

"I  had  left  the  house  to  look  for  you,  Jack," 
began  Josephine,  quietly,  "but  I  had  not  gone 
very  far  when  I  met  this  gentleman.  He  had 
been  caught  in  the  storm  and  was  hastening  home, 
but  when  he  learned  that  you  were  lost  he  just 
bundled  me  back  into  the  house  without  any  cere 
mony  at  all,  put  up  his  horse  and  struck  out  after 
you — all  alone — Jack,  these  men  of  the  West  are 
God's  own—  "  her  voice  broke  a  little—  "and  he 
found  you  and  brought  you  back  to  me— 
and  —  " 

"That  was  mighty  clever  of  you,  LaDue,"  said 
Jack,  striving  to  keep  awake  until  he  had  said 
what  he  wanted  to  say.  "You  are  a  generous 
man.  I  have  not  quite  understood  you.  I  hope 
you  will  not  hold  it  against  me.  Shake  on  it, 
wron't  you?" 

The  stranger  approached  the  bedside  and  took 
the  weak,  extended  hand  in  a  warm,  firm  grasp. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  all  right,  Carroll,"  he  said, 

[45] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

quietly,  "but  your  eyes  play  you  false.  You  are 
suffering  much  pain.  It  blinds  you.  I  am  not 
LaDue,  but  Burrington.  You  remember  Tom 
Burrington  of  the  Seven-up,  don't  you?" 


[46] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  A  QUARREL 

rilHE  next  day,  rather  early  in  the  morning,  the 
storm  having  died  in  the  night,  a  young 
fellow  with  wide  open,  baby  blue  eyes,  that  soft 
ened  wonderfully  the  stalwart,  self-reliant  effect 
of  a  pair  of  unusually  broad  shoulders,  rode  up  to 
the  door  of  the  Broken  Key. 

The  Broken  Key  homestead-ranch  had  been 
thus  quaintly  called  because  of  a  little  incident 
that  had  occurred  shortly  after  young  Carroll  had 
taken  up  residence  on  his  claim.  He  had  just  re 
turned  one  day  in  the  late  Summer  from  a  long 
ride  to  Yelpen  for  the  mail  and,  the  time  being 
ripe  for  choosing  and  registering  a  brand  for  his 
newly  acquired  stock,  was  thinking  deeply  about 
the  subject  when  he  suddenly  broke  his  key  in  a 
vain  attempt  to  turn  it  in  a  plugged  keyhole.  He 
had  been  very  angry  at  first,  but  in  the  end  had 
reasoned  that  he  himself  had  been  much  at  fault. 
He  remembered  having  heard  something,  some 
time,  about  the  free-masonry  that  existed  on  the 
range  in  regard  to  the  unwritten  law  of  the  hang- 

[47] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

ing  latch  string.  It  was  very  probable  that  some 
one  in  passing  had  resented  the  inhospitality  of 
the  locked  door.  He  was  genuinely  sorry.  He 
should  not  forget  again.  That  same  week,  he 
perfected  his  design  of  a  broken  key  and  regis 
tered  it  upon  the  books  of  the  county. 

"The  Boss  said  you  was  in  need  of  a  hand,  so 
I  thought  I'd  just  step  up  to  see  if  I'd  do,"  said 
the  young  fellow  with  the  baby  blue  eyes  on  the 
morning  after  the  big  storm.  He  was  in  manifest 
confusion  in  the  presence  of  Josephine. 

"Aren't  you  rather  —  young?"  asked  Jose 
phine,  hesitatingly.  She  had  come  to  the  door  in 
a  morning  gown  of  small-checked  blue  gingham 
and  her  unexpected  daintiness  served  to  enhance 
visibly  the  young  man's  embarrassment. 

"Bless  you,"  he  grinned,  awkwardly,  "I've 
been  punchin'  cows  and  wranglin'  horses  since  I 
was  knee-high-to-a-grasshopper.  That 's  my 
business,  Misses." 

"Are  you  quite  sure  that  you  are  old  enough 
to  vote  ?"  asked  Josephine,  smiling  at  his  boyishly 
expressed  self-esteem. 

"You  bet  I  am.  Why,  Misses,  I  ain't  no  year- 
lin'  nor  yet  a  two-year  old.  I  cut  my  eye  teeth 
ages  ago.  Besides,  I  come  from  Texas.  The 

[48] 


A    QUARREL 

babes  know  how  to  herd  down  there  and  any  old 
time  they'd  a  mind  to  call  your  Northern  bluff  at 
ranchin'  they'd  make  you  look  exactly  plumb  like 
a  balloon  with  a  hole  in  it." 

All  at  once,  his  brief  while  of  easy  self- 
assertiveness  passed  away  and  it  was  as  if  it  had 
never  been.  The  laugh  died  while  a  vacant,  wist 
ful  look  crept  into  his  eyes. 

"Please,  Misses,  take  me,"  he  said,  coaxingly, 
like  a  child. 

"And  you  say  Mr.  Burrington  sent  you?" 
questioned  Josephine,  trying  to  be  wise  and 
business-like  for  Jack's  sake. 

"He  said  your  man  was  thrown  and  would 
have  to  lay  off  for  a  spell  and  he  said  I  could  come 
and  help  you  out  if  I  wanted  to  and  you  was 
agreeable.  He  said  you  had  n't  asked  for  no  help 
but  he  knew  you  needed  it  and  I  could  stay  as 
long  as  you  wanted  me  to  and  my  place  'd  be 
waitin'  for  me  at  the  Seven-up  when  you  was 
through  with  me.  I  been  punchin'  for  the  Boss 
for  a  year." 

"Well,  I  reckon  you  may  stay  until  my  brother 
is  able  to  ride  again,"  said  Josephine.  "Many 
of  the  cattle  have  strayed — •" 

"Oh,  and  I  was  to  tell  you  that  some  of  your 

[49] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

cattle  was  found  feedin'  with  a  Seven-up  bunch 
on  the  home  range  this  mornin'  and  that  you 
ain't  to  worry  about  'em  because  they  are  all 
right  where  they  are  and  the  Boss  '11  take  care 
of  'em,"  interrupted  the  new  hand,  importantly. 

'The  rest  need  to  feed.  Will  you  see  to  them 
now?"  asked  Josephine,  quietly. 

It  was  thus  that  Henry  Hoffman  became  a 
temporary  resident  of  Jack  Carroll's  homestead. 

Three  tedious  weeks  passed  before  the  young 
Southerner  was  able  even  to  make  use  of  crutches. 
A  doctor  had  come  out  from  Velpen  the  third 
day  after  the  accident,  had  approved  cordially 
of  Tom  Burrington's  amateur  surgery,  rebound 
the  break,  and  had  then  left  the  patient  to  make 
his  gallant  fight  with  Josephine's  help,  only, 
against  much  pain  and  fever  and  delirium  and 
the  deadly  weariness  of  inactivity.  At  the  end 
of  that  time,  he  arose  from  his  bed,  hobbled  pain 
fully  to  the  window  and  looked  out,  yearningly. 
Warm  weather  was  fast  setting  in.  There  was  a 
feeling  of  Spring  in  the  air,  though  the  gulches 
and  draws  were  yet  full  of  snow.  The  loftier 
hilltops  only  had  thrust  their  crests,  brown  and 
brooding,  from  out  the  white-streaked  under 
world.  Tier  after  tier  of  these  sombre-capped 

[50] 


A    QUARREL 

hills  lay  between  the  edge  of  the  bottom  land  and 
the  high  horizon. 

"To-morrow,  Josephine,  I  ride  to  the  Seven- 
up  and  bring  back  our  strays.  Yes,  to-morrow 
sees  me  in  the  saddle  again.  You  need  not  smile 
in  such  a  superior  fashion,  Jo.  I  shall  surely 
go  if  I  want  to."  He  was  smiling,  well-knowing 
his  absolute  inability  to  make  his  rash  assertion 
good — but  how  he  longed  for  the  feel  of  leather 
between  his  knees  once  more !  He  thrummed  on 
the  pane  with  his  thin  hands  impatiently. 

"Why  worry  about  the  cattle?"  asked  Jose 
phine,  calmly.  "Mr.  Burrington  sends  us  word 
that  they  are  doing  very  well  with  his  herd.  You 
ought  to  be  thankful  that  they  drifted  into  such 
comfortable  quarters  during  that  terrible  storm 
when  they  might  have  run  till  they  starved  or 
have  fallen  and  frozen  to  death,  instead  of  la 
menting  the  fact  that  you  cannot  have  your  eyes 
upon  them  all  the  time.  Next  week,  perhaps, 
if  you  take  care  of  yourself,  you  may  be  able 
to  ride  to  the  Seven-up  after  your  storm-strays. 
To-morrow,  you  may-  she  paused,  tan- 
talizingly.  '  To-morrow,  you  may  —  hobble 
down  to  the  barn,"  she  concluded,  as  one  grant 
ing  a  favor. 

[51] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

"We'll  see,"  grumbled  the  sick  man,  rebel- 
liously. 

But  when  to-morrow  came,  he  was  content  to 
take  his  crutches  and  hobble  down  to  the  barn. 
A  few  more  brown  peaks  on  the  lower  tiers  had 
poked  their  heads  free  of  the  white  blankets. 
The  season  of  melting  weather  had  begun  in 
earnest.  A  horse  in  the  ash  sapling  corral  whin 
nied  softly  in  pleased  recognition  of  his  long 
absent  master.  It  was  he  who  had  deserted  on 
the  night  of  the  big  storm,  but  he  was  glad  to  feel 
the  familiar  presence  again.  He  put  out  his  nose 
for  Jack  to  stroke  and  rubbed  against  his  shoulder 
caressingly.  The  barnyard  premises  seemed 
otherwise  deserted.  The  boy,  Henry  Hoffman, 
was  out  with  the  remnant  of  the  herd.  The  young 
Texan  had  proved  himself  a  good  workman  in 
spite  of  his  apparent  youthfulness.  The  home 
steaders  would  have  been  glad  to  retain  his  ser 
vices  for  an  indefinite  period  had  their  resources 
warranted  it.  Resting  his  arms  idly  on  the  pal 
ings,  drinking  in  the  soft  air  with  lazy  content, 
Jack  was  presently  aware  that  his  horse  was  not 
the  only  other  creature  near.  From  the  south 
side  of  the  haystack  every  now  and  then  came  a 
glint  of  red.  He  watched  it  come  and  go  with 

[52] 


A    QUARREL 

indolent  curiosity.  It  was  not  long  before  a  red 
head  with  soft  brown  eyes  appeared  around  the 
stack  and  returned  his  gaze  placidly,  still  munch 
ing  hay. 

"Hello,  there!"  he  said  aloud,  in  surprise. 
"Why  are  n't  you  out  with  the  herd,  young  fel 
low?  Henry  must  be  getting  careless.  Well, 
stuff  a-plenty  now,  for  you  won't  get  away  again 
in  a  hurry." 

He  picked  up  his  crutches  and  prepared 
to  drive  the  straying  calf  into  the  protection  of 
the  corral. 

"By  the  great  jumpin'  Jerusalem,"  he  whis 
tled,  softly,  "if  the  prodigal  hasn't  returned! 
What  a  pity  that  in  this  instance  the  prodigal  and 
the  fatted  calf  are  one  and  the  same  person.  It 
would  be  funny,  would  n  't  it,  to  kill  the  fatted 
calf  to  make  a  feast  for  this  prodigal.  Why, 
are  n't  you  the  runaway,  after  all?  " 

The  exclamation  was  called  forth  by  the  un 
expected  sight  of  a  brand  on  the  calf's  side.  One 
evening,  fully  a  month  before  the  great  storm, 
this  same  calf,  born  the  preceding  Spring,  had 
failed  to  return  with  the  herd.  It  had  been  run 
ning  with  the  cattle  only  a  short  time,  as  Jack  had 
kept  it  at  home  and  fed  it  with  his  own  hands 

[53] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

after  weaning  it  from  its  mother,  whom  he  wanted 
for  a  milch  cow.  He  had  never  branded  it. 

"You've  been  sowing  some  wild  oats,  I'm 
afraid,  my  lad,"  said  Jack,  "but  I  hope  you  have 
learned  your  lesson  and  will  be  content  to  stay  at 
home  in  the  future.  Hello !  LaDue !" 

The  island  woodchopper  was  riding  slowly 
by,  apparently  with  no  intention  of  halting,  but 
in  answer  to  Jack's  hail,  he  rode  leisurely  up  to 
the  corral  and  threw  one  leg  over  the  pommel 
of  his  saddle  and,  thus  resting,  surveyed  his 
neighbor  with  careless  curiosity. 

"You  see  I'm  out  again,"  said  Jack,  sociably 
inclined.  "I  hope  soon  to  be  on  my  cowboy  legs 
again." 

"You're  lookin'  sort  o'  peaked,  'pears  to  me," 
said  LaDue. 

"Oh,  that 's  just  because  Josephine  has  made 
such  a  house  plant  of  me  since  my  accident," 
explained  Jack,  with  a  smile.  "That  was  a 
tolerably  good-sized  blizzard,  was  n't  it?  I  hope 
you  don't  have  many  such." 

"I  was  never  out  in  a  worse,"  said  LaDue. 

"Then  you  were  out  in  it,  after  all,"  said  Jack, 
suddenly  grown  serious.  "I  —  did  not  know." 

The  man  flushed  through  his  heavy  coat  of 

[54] 


A    QUARREL 

tan.  He  was  oddly  embarrassed.  "I  —  tried  to 
make  the  gulch  after  the  girl  left,"  he  said, 
slowly,  "but  it  was  so  blamed  uncomfortable 
that  I  soon  gave  it  up  and  —  came  home.  I 
looked  for  you  quite  a  spell."  He  spoke  hesi 
tatingly,  as  if  he  had  not  meant  it  to  be  known 
that  he  had  been  out  in  the  storm  and  was  sorry 
for  his  inadvertent  admission. 

:'That  was  mighty  good  of  you,"  said  Jack, 
earnestly.  "I  am  glad  that  you — tried.  By  the 
way,  LaDue,"  he  continued,  relapsing  into  good- 
natured  raillery.  "I  wish  you'd  tell  me  how  your 
brand  managed  to  stick  on  to  my  calf  without  so 

c,'  •/ 

much  as  a  'By  your  leave,  kind  sir.'  Pretty  soon 
I'll  be  accusing  you  of.  cattle  rustling  if  you 
don't  rope  onto  a  good  explanation." 

"Your  calf!  Well,  I  like  your  nerve!"  said 
LaDue,  laughing  grimly,  as  he  glanced  critically 
at  the  animal  in  the  corral.  "How  do  you  make 
that  out,  Carroll,  when  the  calf  is  mine?" 

"You  must  have  branded  him  by  mistake," 
said  Jack,  still  smiling,  though  a  vague  doubt 
began  stirring  in  his  mind.  He  had  never  un 
derstood  his  odd,  profane  neighbor.  "Why,  I 
raised  this  fellow  by  hand,  so  to  speak.  I  kept 
him  close  to  the  house  and  barn  after  having  him 

[55] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

weaned  and  fed  him  myself  until  about  a 
month  before  the  storm.  I  can't  be  mistaken, 
LaDue,"  he  concluded,  boyishly. 

"Neither  can  I,"  responded  LaDue,  a  little 
gruffly,  "and  I  say  that  I  raised  that  calf  my 
self.  I  cannot  possibly  be  mistaken.  You  may 
call  me  a  cattle  thief  if  you  will.  It 's  all  one  to 
me.  How  did  that  calf  get  here?" 

"He  wandered  here  of  his  own  free  will,  I 
reckon,"  said  Jack,  perplexedly.  "I  found  him 
eating  serenely  away  at  my  haystack  yonder. 
Most  animals  will  come  home  finally  if  left  to 
themselves,"  he  added,  obstinately. 

The  man  broke  into  a  laugh  of  ironical  amuse 
ment. 

"Say,  kid,  why  didn't  you  brand  your  calf 
while  it  was  followin'  its  mother?  That 's  a  habit 
a  cattleman  gets  into  A'mighty  quick.  Why 
did  n't  you,  eh?" 

"Why,  I  just  neglected  it,"  said  Jack,  frankly. 
"He  was  around  the  house  all  the  time  until  he 
was  put  into  the  herd  and  then  I  drove  him  in 
with  the  rest  of  the  cattle  every  night  until  he 
was  lost.  I  thought  I  could  keep  track  of  him,  all 
right.  I  meant  to  brand  him  after  the  Spring 
round-up." 

[56] 


A    QUARREL 

He  was  getting  very  tired  and  leaned  heavily 
against  the  fence,  his  face  pale  and  thin,  his  brown 
eyes  luminous  with  the  fever  of  fatigue. 

"What  a  tale  for  cowmen!  They  don't  do 
business  that  way,  Carroll.  I  don't,  and  I  don't 
pretend  to  be  anything  but  a  woodchopper.  But 
a  man  can't  live  among  cattlemen  without  im- 
bibin'  some  of  their  goll-darned  common  sense. 
Leastwise,  I  can't.  I  branded  that  there  calf  as 
soon  as  I  found  him  taggin '  his  mother.  It 's  the 
safest  way,  friend."  Suddenly,  he  leaned  down 
with  an  unexpected  touch  of  friendliness  in  his 
gruff  voice.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  with  grave 
significance,  "if  you  have  really  lost  a  calf,  but 
I'm  sorrier  if  —  you  haven't.  The  boys  don't 
stand  for  no  foolin',  and  you're  pretty  young,  kid. 
They'd  be  rather  rough  with  you.  Don't  begin 
it,  young  fellow.  I'm  in  earnest.  Get  out  of  the 
country  if  you  can't  make  a  livin'  no  other  way- 
but  whatever  you  do,  don't  begin  it.  I  don't 
hold  this  against  you,  you're  young  and  green - 
I  can  understand.  But  take  my  advice  and  get 
out." 

"Of  course,  LaDue,"  said  Jack,  wearily  —  he 
was  very  tired  now,  "I  do  not  want  to  quarrel 
with  you;  so,  although  I  am  positive  the  calf  is 

[57] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

mine,  you  may  take  him  if  you  like.  There  is 
some  mistake.  I  do  not  doubt  that  you  are 
honest  in  your  belief,  but  neither  do  I  doubt  my 
own  eyes.  Take  him.  He  is  yours  now  at  any 
rate.  We  will  say  no  more  about  it.  Only-  "  a 
sudden  flash  lighted  up  his  tired  eyes—  "don't 
call  me  a  cattle  thief  again,  neighbor.  I  might  - 
resent  it,  you  know.  So  long." 

LaDue  looked  curiously  at  the  younger  man 
for  a  moment.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  tol 
erantly. 

"Good,"  he  said,  briefly.  "I  like  your  grit, 
anyway.  Fight  it  out  for  yourself  if  you  will." 

He  opened  the  gate  of  the  corral,  drove  out 
the  disputed  calf,  and  then  continued  his 
leisurely  way  islandwards,  driving  the  calf  be 
fore  him. 

"You  can  prove  it,  Jack,"  said  Josephine,  in 
dignantly,  a  little  later,  to  Jack,  who  lay  upon  the 
bed  worn  out  after  his  first  exertion.  "Prose 
cute  him.  We  will  have  our  own." 

"That's  the  rub,"  said  Jack,  quietly.  "We 
cannot  prove  it  and  we  are  strangers  in  a  strange 
land.  He  may  be  as  innocent  as  we  are.  It  looks, 
though,  as  if  he  had  taken  advantage  of  its  being 


[58] 


A    QUARREL 

unbranded,  does  n  't  it  ?  Well,  the  incident  is 
closed  and  we  shall  say  no  more  about  it.  But 
mark  you,  Jo,  if  it  should  ever  happen  again  I 
shall  fight  it  out  to  the  last  ditch.  Remember 
that." 


[59] 


CHAPTER  IV 

ONJIJITKA 

fT^HE  following  morning,  Josephine  rode  up 
into  the  hills  to  the  west  of  the  Broken  Key 
ranch.  She  rode  astride,  for  Jack  had  insisted 
that  she  ride  so.  The  hills  to  be  climbed  were 
high,  and  the  ways  to  their  summits  were  steep. 
The  gulches  were  deep  and  narrow,  and  the  cut 
aways  ugly.  Many  a  deceptive  washout  lay 
concealed  behind  some  innocent-looking  cedar 
sapling  or  bunch  of  the  hard-leaved  soap-weed. 
One  did  well  not  only  to  be  wary  in  choosing 
one's  trail,  but  to  be  sure  of  one's  firmness  and 
equipoise  in  the  saddle.  So  Josephine  felt  very 
mannish  and  confident  on  that  day,  riding  slowly 
over  the  hills.  Jack,  who  had  still  to  wait  a 
little  before  he  could  be  strong  enough  to  ride 
again,  had  begged  her  to  be  careful,  and  she  was 
being  careful.  She  knew  that  the  bluffs  and 
draws,  with  their  blind  trails,  were  vastly  dif 
ferent  from  the  gentle  slopes  of  her  home  land. 
But  she  also  knew  that  Jack  had  given  her  a 

[60] 


ONJIJITKA 

good  horse  —  a  native  of  these  hills  and  one 
which  had  been  gently  broken  because  she, 
Josephine,  was  coming  West  to  ride  him. 

She  was  trying  the  mettle  of  her  new  com 
panion  and  was  finding  it  good.  She  had 
always  made  a  companion  of  her  riding  horses. 
She  was  never  content  until  all  the  little  tricks 
of  temper,  manifestations  of  nervousness,  little 
differences  in  the  niceties  of  bit  control,  all  the 
dislikes  and  the  affectations  of  the  new  partner 
ship  were  as  a  printed  page  for  her  just  and 
comprehensive  reading.  She  liked  the  high 
spirit  and  endurance  of  this  rough-coated  crea 
ture  of  the  range,  accepted  him  joyously  and  set 
about  to  win  his  love  and  confidence  in  return, 
because  it  might  be  that  some  time  much  would 
be  required  of  him  for  her  sake. 

The  day  had  become  damp  and  cloudy  with 
moisture,  and  the  wind,  rising  lightly  out  of  the 
southwest,  went  skimming  over  the  hilltops  with 
soft,  sibilant  whisperings.  Someway,  it  carried 
a  little  chill  with  it,  even  though  it  was  a  promise 
of  melting  wreather  still  to  come.  Josephine, 
pausing  a  moment  at  the  brow  of  a  hill,  where 
the  indistinct  trail  she  had  been  unconsciously 
pursuing  dipped  into  a  valley,  hesitated  to  go 

[61] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

farther,  and  thought  of  the  dinner  that  it  was 
her  lot  to  prepare,  a  household  task  that  she, 
unaccustomed  to  its  exactions,  had  forgotten 
while  the  sun  shone. 

Into  the  range  of  her  vision  as  she  gazed 
thoughtfully  across  the  valley,  rode  a  horse 
woman.  This  rider  did  not  pause  on  the  opposite 
hilltop  as  Josephine  had  paused,  but  rode  steadily 
down  into  the  ravine,  apparently  without  knowl 
edge  of  the  near  presence  of  another/  human  life  in 
the  solemn  solitude  of  the  hills.  She  came  out  of 
the  southwest  and  she  rode  easily  and  as  well  as 
Josephine  rode,  astride.  It  was  not  until  after 
she  had  crossed  the  valley  and  was  climbing  the 
hill  where  Josephine  awaited  her  approach  with 
a  curious  little  throb  of  something  akin  to  home 
sickness  engendered  by  the  unexpected  nearness 
of  one  of  her  own  kind  that  Josephine  perceived, 
with  a  shock  of  disappointment,  that  the  stran 
ger's  feet  were  encased  in  beaded  moccasins. 
With  this  rather  startling  exception,  however, 
she  was  dressed  much  as  Josephine  was  dressed, 
with  leggings,  dark  blue  serge  skirt,  short  jacket, 
and  fur  cap.  This  was  noticeable,  however,  that 
while  Josephine's  cap  was  of  sealskin,  hers  was 
of  beaver,  a  relic  of  the  days  when  her  trapper 

[62] 


'  '  How  do  vou  do?'  answered  the  stranger,  in  a  clear,  sweet  voice 


ONJIJITKA 

ancestors  still  found  beaver  along  the  waterways 
of  the  Dakotas. 

"How  do  you  do,"  said  Josephine. 

"How  do  you  do,"  answered  the  stranger,  in 
a  clear,  sweet  voice.  She  stopped  before  Jose 
phine,  and  it  was  then  that  Josephine  received 
the  second  surprise  of  the  unexpected  encounter. 
The  moccasins  had  belied  the  stranger,  after  all. 
Her  skin  was  almost  as  fair  as  Josephine's  own 
and  her  cheeks  were  flushed  with  color.  Her 
head  was  as  proudly  held,  with  even  a  touch  of  its 
patrician  poise.  Her  dark  eyes  met  Josephine's 
frankly  curious  gaze  with  reserve. 

"I  am,  you  know,"  she  added,  unexpectedly. 

"Are  what?"  asked  Josephine,  in  surprise. 

"Dakotah." 

Josephine  held  out  her  hand  with  a  quick 
gesture  of  impulsive  friendliness. 

"I  should  never  have  guessed  it,"  she  said, 
honestly.  "But  that  need  not  hinder  our  being 
friends,  need  it  ?  I  have  been  afraid  that  I  was 
going  to  be  very  lonely,  sometimes.  I  did  not 
know  there  were  any  girls  west  of  the  river.  My 
name  is  Josephine  Carroll  and  I  live  at  the 
Broken  Key." 

The  girl  hesitated  a  moment,  drawing  back 

[63] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

slightly;  then  she  changed  her  mind  and  ac 
cepted  Josephine's  proffered  hand-clasp  with 
grave  formality. 

"My  name  is  Onjijitka,  which  in  English 
means  Rosebud,  and  I  live  on  the  Rosebud 
Reservation,"  she  said  simply. 

"That  is  a  very  pretty  name,"  replied  Jose 
phine.  "  I  am  afraid  it  will  take  me  some  time  to 
learn  to  pronounce  it  correctly  in  Indian,  so  for 
the  present,  at  least,  I  will  call  you  Rosebud,  if 
you  don't  mind." 

"They  called  me  Rosebud  at  school,  and 
nearly  everybody  around  here  calls  me  that,  ex 
cept  the  Indians,"  the  girl  said. 

IclYou  were  going  toward  the  river  ?"  ques 
tioned  Josephine.  "I  was  about  to  return  and 
will  ride  with  you  if  you  do  not  object.  I  am  my 
brother's  housekeeper  and  must  hasten  to  get  the 
dinner  pot  to  boiling,"  she  chatted  easily,  with 
a  mixture  of  girlish  pride  in  the  new  dignity  of 
her  position  and  an  honest  desire  to  show  a 
friendly  spirit  to  this  girl  of  another  race.  Even 
in  her  light  chatter,  her  voice  retained  the  soft, 
drawling  cadence  implanted  there  by  her  South 
ern  birth  and  training,  and  which  was  fast 
becoming  irresistible  to  the  half-breed  girl. 

[64] 


ON  JIJITKA 

"You  have  been  to  school  at  Hampton,  have 
you  not?"  she  questioned,  wondering  at  the  con 
tinued  silence  of  her  new  companion. 

"Notre  Dame,"  said  Rosebud,  laconically. 

"Oh!"  said  Josephine,  blankly.  ;'Then  you 
are  a  Romanist?"  she  added  presently,  de 
termined  to  make  this  girl  talk  if  she  sat  there  all 
day  asking  questions. 

"I  suppose  so." 

"Are  you  crossing  the  river  to-day  ?"  ventured 
Josephine  again.  "Perhaps  we  had  better  be 
starting  back,"  she  suggested,  pointing  Long 
Chase's  nose  homeward. 

"I  am  going  to  Velpen,"  answered  Rosebud, 
falling  into  step  beside  Josephine. 

"Then  you  must  stop  at  the  Broken  Key  and 
dine  with  us,"  exclaimed  Josephine,  as  the  ponies 
started  briskly  forward.  "I  will  have  dinner 
ready  in  no  time.  You  will,  won't  you?  Promise 
me,"  insisted  Josephine. 

"I  should  like  to,"  hesitated  Rosebud,  "but  it 
has  been  a  long  time  since  I  ate  with  any  of  — 
your  people.  I  am  afraid  I  should  not  know  how 
to  act." 

"I  do  not  believe  that,"  said  Josephine,  ear 
nestly.  "Besides,  there  are  only  Jack  and  I  and 

[65] 


we  are  very  plain  people,  I  assure  you,  and  live 
in  a  very  plain  manner.  Surely  you  will  not 
refuse  to  dine  with  us  because  of  our  limited 
capabilities  for  serving  a  good  meal,  will  you?" 
she  concluded  laughingly. 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Rosebud,  soberly.  "I  will 
eat  with  you  since  you  are  so  good  as  to  ask  me. 
I  did  not  expect  to  eat  at  a  white  man's  table 
again.  But  Josephine  Carroll  has  —  a  way,  and 
Onjijitka  does  not  know  how  to  refuse." 

"Don't  you  like  white  people?"  asked  Jose 
phine. 

"Yes,  I  like  you  —  some  of  you,"  said  Rose 
bud,  her  native  reserve  giving  way  at  last.  "But 
you  do  not  like  me.  You  do  not  like  me  as  well 
as  you  like  my  mother,  who  is  all  Dakotah.  I 
went  away  to  Notre  Dame  because  my  mother's 
people  did  not  like  me  very  well  and  I  thought 
I'd  learn  to  be  white.  I  learned  —  almost.  I 
learned  this  much  and  then  I  had  to  stop:  that 
I  might  learn  to  read  and  write,  comb  my  hair 
according  to  the  mode,  wear  abominable  stiff 
corset  things,  sing  and  dance  and  play  the  piano 
and  embroider  and  —  oh,  so  many,  many  things 
that  are  required,  you  know  how  many — but  that 
I  never  could  be  white.  I  spent  four  years  learn- 

[66] 


ONJIJITKA 

ing  all  this  and  then  I  found  at  the  very  last 
that  you  had  lied  to  me  —  you  white  people.  My 
blood  is  mixed,  and  that,  you  say,  is  a  barrier 
raised  by  heaven  itself  and  as  irrevocable  as 
death.  I  beat  my  heart  out  until  it  was  all 
bruised  and  bleeding;  with  sorrow  at  first,  then 
with  rage,  because  you  had  lied  to  me,  you  know, 
and  then  because  I  would  not  be  a  dog  of  a 
half-breed,  to  fawn  upon  the  white  man,"  she  said, 
her  voice  vibrating  with  the  fierce  pride  of  her 
haughty  Sioux  forefathers  who  had  been  heredi 
tary  chiefs,  "I  came  back  to  my  people.  My 
father  was  dead  and  my  mother  had  married 
Two  Hawks.  They  accepted  me.  When  I  was 
little,  my  mother  called  me  Onjijitka.  All  my 
people  call  me  that  now,  though  at  school  I  was 
known  as  Rosebud  Gireaux.  Gireaux  was  my 
father's  name.  I  am  all  Dakotah  now." 

This  was  not  true  —  this  latter  statement  — 
and  Josephine,  writh  quick  sympathy,  knew  that 
it  was  not.  If  she  were  in  truth  content  to  hark 
back  wholly  to  the  Indian  ways,  why  then  this 
dress  of  the  pale  face  and  why  then  this  sombre 
speech  with  its  tang  of  bitterness? 

"Let  us  be  friends,  you  and  me,"  said  Jose 
phine,  as  their  ponies  took  the  homeward  stretch 

[67] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

toward  the  little  cabin  with  its  thin  spiral  of 
smoke  climbing  idly  up  into  the  damp  air.  The 
sight  sent  a  queer  little  home  thrill  through  her 
heart.  Strange,  when  she  had  thought  there  was 
to  be  no  end  to  the  longing  for  the  sunny  land  of 
her  nativity,  though  Jack  was  never  to  know  that. 
"This  land  of  yours  is  so  big  and  lonesome,  Rose 
bud.  Shall  we  be  friends  always?" 

"You  are  very  good.  I  should  like  to  be 
friends.  When  Rosebud  visits  Miss  Josephine 
Carroll  at  the  Broken  Key,  well  and  good.  I 
should  know  what  to  do.  At  Notre  Dame,  many 
took  me  to  be  just  French  —  my  father  was  a 
French  Indian  trader  in  the  Red  Lake  country, 
you  know  —  and  the  good  sisters  taught  me  some 
of  their  ways.  But  when  Miss  Josephine  Car 
roll  comes  to  visit  at  the  tepee  of  Two  Hawks, 
Rosebud  will  have  forgotten  and  what  will  Miss 
Josephine  Carroll  do  then?" 

"I  do  not  care  where  you  live,"  cried  Jose 
phine,  impulsively,  "wre  are  going  to  be  friends, 
are  we  not?" 

"Always,"  said  Rosebud,  gravely. 

Dinner  was  smoking  on  the  table  when  Jack 
swung  up  the  path  on  his  crutches,  whistling  a 
gay  measure  the  while,  well  content  with  all  the 

[68] 


ONJIJITKA 

world  just  then,  notwithstanding  his  tedious 
convalescence  and  the  fact  that  he  had  so  recently 
disagreed  with  his  neighbor.  Josephine  was 
home  and  she  would  have  a  spanking  hot 
dinner  all  ready.  After  that  there  would  be  a  bit 
of  a  smoke  and  a  chat,  maybe,  about  that  time 
coming  when  there  would  be  a  realization  of  all 
their  ultra-optimistic  dreams,  and  there  should  be 
cattle  on  a  thousand  hills  for  John  Calhoun  and 
Josephine  Carroll.  So  the  whistle  on  his  lips  was 
very  gay  and  the  content  in  his  handsome  eyes 
was  very  pronounced  when  he  threw  open  the 
door  of  his  cabin  and  sent  his  new  hat  —  a  real 
Stetson  this  time,  he  had  learned  the  proper  thing 
in  hats  since  his  tenderfoot  days  —  spinning 
across  the  floor.  It  was  then  that  he  saw  Rose 
bud. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  at  once,  with 
ready  courtesy. 

"Rosebud,  my  brother  Jack,"  said  Josephine, 
placing  the  steaming  coffee  pot  upon  the  table 
and  looking  altogether  charming  in  a  gingham 
apron,  her  cheeks  flushed  with  recent  proximity 
to  the  stove.  "Jack,  Miss  Rosebud  Gireaux." 

"Welcome  to  the  Broken  Key,"  Miss 
Gireaux,"  said  Jack. 

[69] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

"Thank  you,"  said  Rosebud,  simply. 

"Rosebud  and  I  are  already  the  very  best  of 
friends,"  explained  Josephine,  as  they  seated 
themselves  around  the  table  with  its  square  of 
white  linen  which  Josephine  had  brought  with 
her  from  that  far  away  Southland.  "And  we  are 
going  to  be  together  a  great  deal  in  the  time  to 
come.  Xow  that  you  are  discovered,  Rosebud, 
it  will  not  be  easy  for  you  to  get  away  from  me." 

"I  shall  not  want  to,"  said  Rosebud,  seriously. 

"I  should  like  to  know  where  I  come  in  on 
this,"  spoke  up  Jack,  a  laugh  in  his  eyes.  "You 
girls  seem  to  be  leaving  me  altogether  out  of  the 
count.  I  shall  not  submit  to  it,  I  assure  you." 

"Oh,  now  that  I  have  Rosebud,"  scoffed  Jose 
phine,  "you  can  take  care  of  yourself.  Men  are 
dreadfully  in  the  way,  are  they  not,  Rosebud? " 

"Now,  Miss  —  Rosebud,"  remonstrated  Jack, 
"don't  you  go  to  siding  in  with  Josephine  there. 
You  know  you'd  like  to  have  me  around  some 
times,  now,  would  n't  you?"  he  wheedled.  "I  am 
a  pretty  good  sort  of  a  fellow,  really." 

He  was  much  amused  by  this  play  of  nonsense. 
He  was  much  of  a  boy  still,  though  he  was  seven 
and  twenty.  Besides,  she  was  a  very  pretty  girl 
—  there  was  no  getting  around  that.  He  won- 

[70] 


ONJIJITKA 

dered  what  she  would  say.  She  did  not  seem  like 
a  girl  who  would  enter  into  raillery  with  the 
joyous  abandon  of  many  girls  whom  he  had 
known  in  the  past. 

''If  you  are  like  Josephine,"  sue  replied 
gravely,  "you  cannot  help  being  good.  As  for 
your  being  in  the  way,  that  I  cannot  answer,  be 
cause  I  never  knew  before  any  one  —  like  you." 

It  was  late  when  Rosebud,  returning,  crossed 
the  ice  again  and  was  slipping  noiselessly  past 
the  ranch  of  the  Broken  Key  on  her  way  to  the 
tepee  of  Two  Hawks.  It  was  dark,  too,  with 
that  damp,  warm,  cloudy  darkness  that  comes 
with  the  melting  of  many  snows.  A  light,  burn 
ing  steadily,  shone  through  the  window.  Jose 
phine  and  Jack  were  still  up  then.  Perhaps 
Josephine  was  reading  aloud  while  Jack  rested, 
stretched  out  upon  the  wolfskin  that  she  had 
noticed  on  the  floor  by  the  fire,  his  hands  under 
his  head,  maybe.  Or  it  might  be  that  there  was 
silence  between  them  while  each  dreamed  his 
dream.  She  was  glad  now  that  she  had  worn  her 
moccasins.  She  could  creep  up  unheard  and  un 
seen  and  satisfy  that  unexplainable  longing 
which  was  hers.  They  would  never  know  and 
she  would  see  again  the  man  whose  like  she  had 

[71] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

never  known  before.  She  slipped  lightly  from 
her  saddle  and  crept  forward  soundlessly  with 
all  the  cunning  stealth  of  her  Sioux  ancestry 
coming  to  the  exultant  aid  of  this  their  child. 
Before  she  had  half  covered  the  distance  she 
stopped  suddenly.  It  meant  that  she  should 
have  to  bear  for  all  time  the  cross  of  blood.  It 
meant  that  she  could  never  again  know  content 
in  the  lazy,  degenerating  existence  of  Two 
Hawks.  As  long  as  she  lived  now  she  would 
have  to  be  as  white  as  she  could  because  of- 
Josephine?  Yes,  because  of  Josephine.  And 
Jack?  Ah,  yes,  because  of  Jack  —  Jack  of  the 
courteous  speech,  the  whistling  mouth,  and  the 
laughing  eyes.  Skulking  in  the  shadows  was  not 
what  they  would  do  —  those  two  in  there.  She 
glided  back  to  her  pony,  mounted,  and  rode 
slowly  away  into  the  wide  and  lonely  night. 


[72] 


CHAPTER  V 

A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER  AND  A  RESCUE 


ri^HE  warm  weather  continued.  The  older 
settlers  along  the  Missouri  predicted  an 
early  break-up  of  the  river.  The  bluffs  were 
dry  and  brown  and  the  snow  in  the  deep  ravines 
and  pockets  of  the  hills  was  fast  disappearing. 

The  cattle  that  had  strayed  from  the  Broken 
Key  during  the  wild  storm  in  which  John  Cal- 
houn  Carroll's  leg  had  been  broken  had  not 
yet  been  recovered.  But  Tom  Burrington  had 
reported  them  as  running  with  his  own  herds,  so 
the  young  homesteaders  were  resting  easy  in  the 
friendly  assurance.  There  were  only  a  half- 
dozen  or  so  of  them,  but  it  would  have  been  a 
woful  loss  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  Carrolls' 
fight  for  place  in  the  big  land  so  arrogantly  re 
sentful  of  invasion,  where  the  littleness  of  man 
was  seemingly  an  inexorable  law  and  dogged 
endurance  the  one  hope  of  the  ultimate  gaining 
of  a  foothold  therein. 

"Don't  you  want  to  ride  with  me  to  see  Tom  ?" 
asked  Jack,  shortly  after  the  visit  of  the  Indian 

[731 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

girl  and  when  he  had  at  last  obtained  Josephine's 
permission  to  ride.  "We  can  find  out  about  the 
fool  cattle  and  make  a  neighborly  call  at  the  same 
time." 

"But  Mr.  Burrington  has  not  called  on  us 
yet,"  objected  Josephine. 

"Don't  you  ever  believe  that,"  said  Jack. 
"Did  he  not  draw  up  his  horse  and  chat  a  bit  the 
other  day  on  his  way  home  ?  That  counts  west  of 
the  river,  my  girl." 

"I  did  not  see  him.  He  did  not  ask  for  me," 
said  Josephine,  still  loath. 

"He  asked  about  you,  however;  and  besides, 
where  would  I  be  now  if  it  had  not  been  for  this 
man  Tom  Burrington  of  the  Seven-up?  You 
will  have  to  pack  away  in  moth  balls  some  of  your 
old-fashioned,  conservative  prejudices,  Jose 
phine,"  he  counselled,  wisely.  "Or,  better  still, 
bury  them  altogether.  I  have,"  he  confessed, 
with  a  laugh.  "Remember  always  that  we  are 
well  within  the  borders  of  cattle  land.  Besides, 
I  shall  be  gone  the  better  part  of  the  day  and  I 
thought  it  would  be  lonesome  for  you  here. 
Come,  get  on  your  bonnet.  It  is  a  fine  day  for 
a  ride." 

It  was  a  fine  day.  There  was  no  mistake  about 
[74] 


A   CHANCE    ENCOUNTER 

that.  The  air  was  like  June.  From  the  island 
came  the  pound  of  regular  blows  of  an  axe  upon 
fallen  timber,  the  rhythmic  echoes  of  which  went 
sounding  among  the  hills.  Somewhere  within 
that  labyrinth  of  ancient,  lofty,  gaunt  cotton- 
woods,  of  runty,  spreading  cedars,  of  gigantic 
elms,  and  of  the  thick  growth  of  straight,  slender 
ash,  their  neighbor  was  chopping  wood.  As 
they  were  mounted  and  ready  to  start,  a  man 
rode  into  their  clearing,  a  young  man  with 
much  breadth  of  shoulder  and  with  lazy-looking 
eyes. 

"Howdy,"  said  the  newcomer,  indifferently. 

"Good-morning,"  returned  Jack.  "I  thought 
you  went  early  this  morning,  Henry.  4You  said 
last  night  that  you  expected  to  be  off  before  sun- 
up." 

"Yep.  I  reckon  I  did.  But  I  thought  I'd 
come  back  and  ask  you  something.  You  see  I  'm 
out  of  a  job  now." 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  asked  Jack,  in  a  fever  to 
be  off. 

"Who  did  you  say  lives  over  to  the  island 
now?" 

"A  man  by  the  name  of  LaDue  —  Frank  La- 
Due.  By  the  way,  you  might  find  work  over 

[75] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

there.  He  chops  a  lot  of  wood  and  must  need  a 
great  deal  of  help.  You  see  how  heavily  that 
island  is  timbered.  Besides,  I  understand  that 
LaDue  runs  the  ferry  during  the  Summer.  He 
will  certainly  need  assistance  then.  It  won't  do 
any  harm  to  talk  to  him,  anyway.  I  thought 
Tom  Burrington  was  keeping  your  place  for 
you  at  the  Seven-up." 

'T  ain't  much  of  an  island  now,"  said  Henry 
Hoffman,  evasively. 

"  No,  it  is  n't,  for  a  fact.  But  they  tell  me  that 
during  high  water  a  considerable  stream  flows 
between  it  and  us." 

"Does  he  keep  any  cows?"  inquired  Henry, 
meditatively.  "I'm  thinkin'  I  wouldn't  be  a 
howlin'  success  topplin'  over  trees.  I'd  ruther 
ride  any  day.  No  tellin',  though,  what  we  will 
come  to  yet,  now  that  the  good  old  days  of  free 
grass  are  turnin'  up  their  toes  to  the  daisies. 
You  fellows  are  responsible  for  that." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  West,  man?  "  said  Jack,  a 
little  impatiently.  Was  he  never  to  have  done 
with  this  quarrel  against  homesteading ?  "There 
is  free  grass  in  plenty  out  along  the  old  Black 
Hills  trail.  But  honestly  now,  my  friend,"  he 
argued,  with  returning  good  nature,  "I  acknowl- 

[76] 


A   CHANCE    ENCOUNTER 

edge  that  I  am  somewhat  of  a  tenderfoot,  but 
are  you  not  asking  me  to  believe  a  lot  when  you 
intimate  that  you  are  an  old-timer  ?  Have  you 
voted  yet?" 

'T  ain't  because  I  ain't  old  enough,  if  I 
have  n't,"  said  the  other  with  a  laugh.  "Besides, 
as  I  told  your  sister  when  I  first  came  here,  I  Ve 
been  punchin'  cows  and  wranglin'  horses,  young 
fellow,  since  I  was  knee-high-to-a-grasshopper. 
What  did  you  remark  about  that  man  LaDue 
and  his  critters?  Hasn't  he  ary  a  cow?" 

"I  think  he  has  a  few.  I  do  not  know  where 
he  keeps  them.  You  had  better  go  and  interview 
him.  If  you  do  not  come  to  terms,  why,  walk 
right  in  here  and  make  yourself  at  home  before 
riding  on,"  said  Jack,  with  ready  hospitality. 
"You  will  find  bacon  and  bread  handy,  and  there 
is  fresh  meat  in  the  shed.  Just  help  yourself, 
will  you?  We  have  a  long  ride  before  us  and 
must  be  getting  on." 

"Say,  Mr.  Carroll,"  advised  Henry,  "these 
ain't  the  good  old  days  I  was  tellin'  you  about, 
you  know.  Folks  mostly  lock  their  doors  here 
abouts.  'T  ain't  always  then  they  find  things 
like  they  left  them.  Sometimes  there  won't  be 
nothin'  there  at  all  but  just  a  vacuum,  savin' 

[77] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

some  sky  and  air,  maybe.     Well,  so  long,"  he 
called,  riding  leisurely  islandwards. 

"What  an  abnormal  breadth  of  shoulder  he 
has,"  said  Josephine,  musingly,  "and  his  eyes  are 
as  blue  and  frank  as  a  child's.  Do  you  know, 
Jack,  that  is  just  what  he  reminds  me  of  —  a 
great,  good-natured,  overgrown  baby." 

Perhaps  twenty  feet  from  the  shore  Tom 
Burrington  had  cut  a  watering  place  for  his 
cattle,  and  sanded  well  the  ice  between  so  they 
would  not  slip.  This  trough  ran  parallel  with 
the  central  portion  of  a  large  airhole,  a  mile  and 
a  half  in  length  and  perhaps  forty  rods  in  width 
at  its  widest  place,  and  a  number  of  feet  beyond 
the  ice  ditch.  The  current  where  the  river  was 
open  had  a  curious  rotary  movement.  Tom  was 
riding  to  the  corral  to  release  the  cattle  therein 
waiting  to  be  driven  to  water,  when  Jack  and 
Josephine  rode  into  view.  He  swept  his  wide 
hat  from  his  head  and  rode  quickly  forward. 

"You  do  not  know  how  glad  I  am  that  you 
have  come,"  he  said,  with  a  certain  grave  em 
phasis.  Glancing  at  Josephine,  he  could  not  help 
wondering  how  it  was  that  a  woman  so  altogether 
swreet  and  good  to  look  upon  had  chanced  to  stray 
to  these  outer  boundaries  of  the  earth. 

[78] 


A   CHANCE    ENCOUNTER 

"We  are  seekers,"  explained  Jack.  'You 
have  not  been  rustling  any  Broken  Key  cattle, 
have  you,  Tom  ?  I  am  told  of  a  surety  that  some 
are  mixed  up  in  your  herds.  Explanations  are 
in  order,  and  I  hope  for  the  sake  of  our  friend 
ship  that  this  little  affair  may  be  satisfactorily 
adjusted,"  he  concluded,  whimsically. 

Tom  laughed ;  then  he  held  his  hands  to  his  lips 
and  sent  forth  a  resonant  hail  that  awoke  the 
echoes  in  the  surrounding  hills. 

"Forgive  me,  Miss  Carroll,"  he  apologized, 
"but  that  boy,  Charlie,  is  around  somewhere  and 
I  want  him.  I  lost  a  valuable  man  this  morning," 
he  continued,  turning  to  Jack. 

"Henry  Hoffman  came  back  a  while  ago  and 
told  me  that  you  no  longer  needed  him,"  said 
Jack,  "and  that  he  guessed  he'd  'be  a-movin'  on.' ' 

"He  had  not  been  with  me  long,  but  he  was  as 
good  a  cowman  as  I  ever  knew.  He  came  to  this 
country  from  Texas  a  year  or  two  ago.  He  is  a 
reckless  sort  of  a  fellow,  but  I  liked  him.  I  do 
not  know  why  he  left  me.  He  gave  no  excuse; 
simply  said,  when  I  paid  him  off  this  morning, 
that  he  guessed  he  'd  'be  a-movin'  on.' ' 

"I  referred  him  to  our  neighbor,  LaDue.  He 
was  looking  for  a  job." 

[79] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

"Good  Lord!"  ejaculated  the  cowboy,  Charlie 
Moore,  riding  into  the  little  circle.  "Henry 
Hoffman  chop  wood?  Not  muchy!  I'd  plumb 
love  to  see  him  do  it!" 

"Well,  he  is  gone,  so  it  does  not  matter  what 
he  does  or  where  he  goes,"  said  Tom.  "But  I 
was  sorry  to  lose  him.  Ride  to  the  home  range, 
Charlie,  and  cut  out  any  Broken  Key  cattle  that 
may  be  there.  You  reported  some  strays  on 
that  pasture,  did  you  not?  You  had  better  take 
some  one  with  you.  Drive  the  bunch  here." 

"I  will  go  with  him,"  volunteered  Jack,  "if  I 
may  leave  Josephine  behind." 

"By  all  means,"  agreed  Tom  promptly. 

"If  you  will  keep  on  with  your  work,"  qualified 
Josephine. 

"It  is  agreed.  I  have  a  hundred  head  of  cattle 
here  which  I  am  bound  to  deliver  to  the  Lower 
Brule  Indians,  in  prime  condition.  The  drive 
begins  at  two  o'clock  this  afternoon.  I  have 
the  government  contract,  as  perhaps  you  know, 
so  I  have  this  to  do  every  month.  If  you  really 
do  not  mind,  I  will  just  finish  this  little  chore 
now." 

Jack  and  Charlie  rode  away.  Josephine 
watched  the  work  of  the  big  ranchman  interest- 

[80] 


A   CHANCE    ENCOUNTER 

edly,  sitting  quietly  on  Long  Chase,  looking  fair 
and  sweet  and  lovable  with  the  fresh  wind  blow 
ing  loosened  tendrils  of  shining  hair  about  her 
face,  the  crimson  at  her  throat  making  a  spot  of 
color  in  vivid  contrast  to  the  dun  hues  of  the 
hills  and  the  lines  of  gray  timber  belting  the 
ravines  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river. 

Together  with  most  of  the  cattlemen  of  the 
sterner  mould,  those  who  had  endured  and  who 
now,  weather-toughened,  hardship-proof,  battle- 
scarred  veterans  of  the  wilderness,  looking  back 
upon  their  colossal  struggle,  were  slow  to  accord 
to  rawer  recruits  the  strength  of  purpose  with 
which  they  themselves  had  been  endowed,  and 
counted  all  tenderfeet  weaklings  until  proved 
otherwise.  Burrington  believed  that  young  Car 
roll  and  his  sister  would  flit  away  soon,  and  that 
the  wide  plains  and  the  solemn  hills  would  know 
them  no  more.  Not  that  Carroll  was  not  brave- 
hearted  and  lofty-spirited ;  but  the  bravest  hearts 
may  be  broken  by  loneliness,  and  the  loftiest 
spirits  sink  the  lowest  when  encompassed  by  un- 
responsiveness. 

Besides,  there  had  never  been  a  girl  like  Jose 
phine  west  of  the  river  —  never ;  and  because 
there  never  had  been,  he  was  afraid  to  look  for 

[81] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

her  face  on  the  canvas  of  the  future  for 
fear  that  it  would  have  been  blotted  out.  If 
only  she  could  be  kept  until  his  mother  came; 
that  might  help  to  hold  her  always.  But  he 
could  not  ask  his  mother  to  come  to  him  until 
the  harshness  of  early  Spring  was  well  over,  not 
even  —  and  besides,  how  could  he  ask  her  to  come 
now,  any  way,  just  because  an  unusually  sweet 
girl  ha'd  settled  in  the  neighborhood?  The  ab 
surdity  of  it  all  sent  a  laugh  to  his  lips  as,  still 
mounted,  he  opened  the  gate  of  the  huge  corral 
and  drove  the  herd  down  toward  the  river.  He 
wore  no  coat  or  waist-coat,  his  heavy  blue  flan 
nel  shirt  being  all-sufficient  for  his  vigorous  and 
healthy  manhood.  The  soft  ends  of  the  white 
neckerchief  knotted  around  his  brown  throat 
fluttered  gayly  in  the  light  wind. 

Separating  about  ten  of  the  cattle  from  the 
main  herd,  Tom  drove  them  onto  the  well-sanded 
ice.  Josephine  rode  closer.  She  had  heard  Jack 
say  that  cattle  seldom  stepped  on  ice  unless  under 
compulsion,  as  they  had  an  inherent  fear  of  it. 
She  was  somewhat  surprised,  therefore,  to  ob 
serve  that  part  of  the  herd  left  on  shore  began 
to  disintegrate  and  to  move  forward.  The  cattle 
were  very  dry  and  Tom  was  alone.  In  spite  of 

[82] 


A   CHANCE    ENCOUNTER 

him,  at  least  thirty  impatient,  thirsty  steers 
crowded  down  to  drink.  Immediately  the  ice, 
softened  by  the  long  spell  of  melting  weather, 
began  to  sink,  and  the  water  came  up  through 
the  cut  places  and  spread  over  the  ice.  Leaping 
from  his  horse,  Tom  quickly  skirted  the  cattle, 
and  from  the  channel  side  began  driving  them 
shoreward.  This  left  the  remaining  herd  master- 
less,  and  the  whole  foolish,  thirsty  bunch  pressed 
forward  to  the  sanded  ice.  It  was  a  critical  mo 
ment.  The  water  already  lay  six  inches  deep 
over  the  ice.  And  now  it  seemed  to  Josephine 
that  there  was  only  one  thing  for  her  to  do.  She 
could  not  sit  still  and  let  all  those  poor  creatures 
drown  before  her  eyes.  She  must  help  Tom. 
Slipping  from  her  saddle,  she  ran  swiftly  around 
the  now  terrified  herd  and  began  pressing  the 
cattle  back  to  the  shore. 

"My  God,  Josephine!"  cried  Tom,  not  know 
ing  that  he  called  her  so,  his  brown  cheeks  paling 
with  sudden  apprehension.  "You  will  be  tram 
pled  to  death!  Keep  back!" 

At  that  moment  the  shore  ice  gave  way. 
There  was  grave  danger  then  for  Tom  and  Jose 
phine  as  well  as  for  the  cattle.  But  an  indom 
itable  soul  was  Tom's.  Still  pushing  the  cattle 

[83] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

forward,  he  ran  toward  Josephine  on  the  farther 
side.  Too  late !  The  ice  had  broken  at  last  from 
the  shore  to  the  treacherous,  boiling  airhole,  and 
all  that  mass  of  rotten  ice  between  became  a  heav 
ing,  floating  death  trap.  Many  cattle  had  al 
ready  scrambled  in  safety  to  the  bank.  Many 
were  breaking  in,  and  yet  others  slid  into  the 
water,  unable  to  maintain  a  balance  on  the  tippy 
blocks  that  broke  off  from  the  main  strip. 
Most  of  these  fortunate  ones  swam  readily  to 
shore ;  but  of  those  which  broke  off  on  the  farther 
side,  many  kept  their  footing  and  went  floating 
down  the  narrow  channel,  their  unsteady  sup 
port  knocking  against  the  thin  ice  on  the  far  side 
of  the  airhole.  When  these  finally  struck  the 
solid  ice  below,  they  dived  suddenly  under,  drawn 
by  the  terrible  suction,  and  the  luckless  creatures 
thus  unexpectedly  brushed  into  the  water  had 
not  room  nor  time  to  resist,  and  many  a  fine  beef, 
signed  with  the  sign  of  the  opulent  Seven-up, 
was  thus  drawn  into  the  yawning,  cruel  trap  of 
death. 

It  was  well  for  Josephine,  that  day,  that  quick 
ness  in  thought  and  unhesitancy  in  action  were 
Tom's  by  right  of  birth  as  well  as  by  the  years 
of  training  in  the  struggle  for  the  subjugation 

[84] 


A   CHANCE    ENCOUNTER 

of  the  arrogant  cattle  country.  He  was  bound 
ing  to  Josephine  to  force  her  out  of  the  reach 
of  danger  when  the  crash  came.  And  then  it  was 
that  Josephine  found  herself  unanchored  on  a 
jagged-edged  piece  of  ice  that  tottered  beneath 
the  weight  of  herself  and  two  lusty  steers;  but 
these  two  poor  creatures  slipped  immediately 
into  the  seething  water,  so  that  her  frail  bark  rode 
steadily  and  began  its  slow,  stately,  heart- 
clutching  journey  down  the  channel.  Then  this 
is  what  he  did,  that  man  of  the  plains.  There 
might  have  been  other  ways  of  saving  Jose 
phine;  perhaps  none  so  sure,  because  it  was  his 
incomparable  strength  that  made  it  possible. 
Afterwards  it  came  to  him  that  he  might  have 
let  her  drift,  as  the  foolish  cattle  had  drifted, 
to  the  solid  ice  below,  and  then  called  to  her  to 
jump  before  her  block  went  under;  but  there 
might  have  been  a  mis-step,  and  there  was  no 
power  on  earth  that  could  have  saved  her  had 
her  spring  fallen  short.  Just  a  moment  he  stood, 
strong,  reliant,  weighing  the  chances.  A  swift, 
unformed  thought  of  commendation  flashed 
through  his  mind  and  then  hid  in  his  heart  to 
find  expression  in  another  time.  Josephine  had 
not  screamed  nor  made  one  rash  or  hysterical 

[85] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

movement.  White-cheeked  and  quiet,  she 
awaited  his  lead. 

"Do  not  move!"  he  called  to  her,  and  ran 
swiftly  to  the  shore,  leaping  the  chasm  where  a 
dark  flood  pushed  and  eddied  between.  It 
would  have  been  a  long  jump,  even  on  an  athletic 
field  with  the  advantage  of  a  run  and  without 
the  hazard  of  teetering  ice  for  the  weight  of  his 
spring.  As  it  was,  he  fell  foul  of  the  bank  and 
went  waist  deep  into  the  slacker  water  close  in 
shore.  He  scrambled  out,  sprang  up  the  bank, 
snatched  his  rope  from  his  saddle  horn,  ran  down 
the  river,  and  out  onto  the  unbroken  ice  below  the 
ugly  break-up. 

Josephine  was  drawing  perilously  near  the 
danger  line  when  he  roped  her  —  roped  her  as 
he  had  roped  hundreds  of  creatures  of  the  range. 
Tom  Burrington  had  not  been  one  to  stay  in  the 
cities  while  the  stirring  man's  work  of  the  ranch 
was  left  to  others,  who  in  turn  would  reap  the 
high  reward  of  a  true  sight,  a  steady  nerve,  and 
a  strong  arm.  No  cow-puncher  on  the  Seven-up 
could  throw  a  better  rope  than  its  master.  The 
noose  settled  swiftly  under  Josephine's  arms; 
there  was  a  quick,  sharp  jerk,  and  he  drew  her 


[86] 


A   CHANCE    ENCOUNTER 

to  him,  out  of  the  death  trap,  safe,  but  bruised 
by  her  crumpled  flight  over  the  ice,  and  shocked 
into  momentary  unconsciousness  by  the  sudden 
contact  with  the  cold  water. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AT  THE  RANCH   HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN-UP 


came  n. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Josephine,  ear 
nestly.  "I  wanted  to  be  a  help  instead  of  a  hin 
drance.  I  am  very  sorry." 

She  was  sitting  in  a  rocking-chair  on  a  huge 
gray  wolfskin  close  to  the  fire  in  the  big  living- 
room  of  the  ranch  house  of  the  Seven-up.  Tom, 
unaccountably  embarrassed  and  fearful  moreover 
of  her  taking  cold  as  a  result  of  her  recent  plunge, 
stirred  the  fire  vigorously  until  it  roared  and 
crackled,  and  then  stood  near  in  order  to  feed  it, 
which  he  did  almost  constantly  from  a  supply  of 
driftwood  heaped  high  in  a  box  behind  the  stove. 
Josephine  had  removed  her  dripping  outer  gar 
ments  and  was  well  wrapped  in  a  gayly  colored 
Indian  blanket  which  her  host  had  left  for  her. 
Her  small  stockinged  feet  were  propped  upon 
the  fender,  her  shoes  standing  near  by  to  dry. 
The  pretty  color  was  returning  to  her  cheeks. 
In  the  kitchen  Tom's  cook  was  plainly  visible, 
moving  briskly  about  preparing  a  meal  of  might 

[88] 


AT    THE    RANCH    HOUSE 

for  the  Boss's  tony,  unexpected,  but  altogether 
welcome  guests.  Given  an  incentive,  he  really 
was  a  famous  cook,  and  what  better  incentive 
than  a  girl  —  and  such  a  girl  —  a  girl  so  late  from 
civilization  that  her  notions  were  doubtless  even 
yet  colored  with  the  pampered  fancies  of  that  far 
away,  mistaken  people.  He  would  show  her  once 
and  for  all  what  real  cookery  was.  So  he  sang,  as 
he  mixed  his  biscuit  dough,  a  song  of  sacred 
words,  but  profane  melody  —  profane  because  he 
had  a  long  time  ago  forgotten  the  meaning  of 
what  he  sang. 

"Are  you  sure  that  you  are  warm  enough?" 
demanded  Tom,  irrelevantly. 

"I  am  as  warm  as  toast,"  said  Josephine. 
'  You  have  made  such  a  splendid  fire,  I  shall  be 
dry  in  no  time.  You  are  so  —  good.  How  can  I 
ever  —  you  were  so  quick  and  so  strong." 

Someway,  it  was  hard  to  say  anything  properly 
to  this  man.  She  had  never  before  found  any 
trouble  in  expressing  herself  easily  and  to  the 
point.  It  annoyed  her.  If  he  would  only  sit 
down !  He  stood  there  looking  down  at  her 
gravely,  and  he  seemed  very  big  and  handsome 
while  she  herself  felt  chagrined,  humbled,  for 
lorn,  and  decidedly  at  a  disadvantage  with  that 

[89] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

ridiculous  blanket,  her  wild  hair,  and  dilapidated 
appearance  generally.  It  wasn't  fair. 

"I  am  glad  I  was  in  time,"  he  said,  simply. 
"But  I  was  sorry  that  I  had  to  throw  so  soon. 
I  think  if  I  had  had  time  to  get  nearer  I  might 
have  saved  you  from  a  wetting." 

Her  vexation  of  the  moment  vanished  imme 
diately.  She  held  out  her  hand  impulsively,  and 
as  he  held  it  for  rather  a  long  moment  he  did  not 
think  once  of  the  dishevelled  hair  or  of  the  bizarre 
effect  of  the  gay  blanket.  What  he  did  think 
was  this :  That  the  west  country  would  be  a  very 
lonely  country  when  this  brown-eyed,  sweet- 
voiced  Josephine  Carroll  went  away  from  it 
forever.  Something  came  to  him  then  —  some 
thing  that  brought  a  hint  of  color  into  the  bronzed 
face  and  a  light  into  the  gray  eyes.  He  threw 
back  his  handsome  head  and  laughed  a  little 
under  his  breath.  He  would  do  it  —  if  he  could. 

"What  did  the  wetting  matter?  What  did 
anything  matter?"  said  Josephine,  gratefully. 
"Only  that  in  a  moment  I  should  have  been  —  it 
would  have  been  too  late  —  but  in  that  moment 
you  were  there  and  now  I  am  here  safe  and  warm 
by  the  fire  —  it  would  be  so  dark  under  the  ice 
and  cold  and  —  the  water  is  running  so  fast." 

[90] 


AT    THE    RANCH    HOUSE 

She  shuddered  and  was  silent,  the  full  horror  of 
it  all  creeping  over  her  for  the  first  time  since  her 
rescue. 

"You  must  not  think  of  that,"  said  Tom, 
quietly.  "There  was  n't  the  slightest  danger.  I 
knew  that  I  should  be  in  time  and  I  also  knew 
that  I  should  not  miss.  Why,  Miss  Carroll,"  he 
went  on,  lightly,  "I  want  you  to  know  that  I 
know  how  to  throw  a  rope.  If  you  will  just  re 
member  that  one  little  fact,  you  will  not  be  afraid 
the  next  time  you  go  for  a  sail  down  Old  Muddy 
on  an  ice  boat." 

Josephine  smiled  tremulously;  then  she  asked 
soberly:  "And  the  poor  cattle  —  did  many 
drown?  Oh,  the  poor  things!" 

"Not  many  in  proportion.  The  boys  are 
filling  out  the  required  number  now.  Do  not 
grieve  about  —  them,"  he  added,  in  a  low  voice. 

At  that  moment  a  shrill  cattle  call  was  heard 
from  without,  and  with  the  words,  "  That  is 
Charlie,  and  judging  from  the  racket,  the  boys 
have  found  the  strays  all  right,"  Tom  left  the 
room. 

It  was  a  meal  of  might,  to  be  sure.  They  ate 
in  the  same  big  room  where  Josephine  had  sat 
by  the  fire.  She  had  put  on  her  own  clothes 

[91] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

again,  but  still  felt  a  little  wrinkled  and 
"trembly."  She  tried  hard,  however,  to  keep  her 
mind  off  the  rushing  water,  and  the  men  never 
spoke  of  it  after  the  affair  had  been  explained  to 
Jack.  His  answer  to  Tom  had  been  a  strong, 
silent  handclasp.  There  were  half  a  dozen  cow 
boys  seated  around  the  long  tables  besides  Tom, 
Josephine,  and  Jack.  It  was  an  interesting 
room.  Josephine  was  frankly  curious  about  it 
and  its  furnishings.  It  was  very  plain  to  be  seen 
that  a  woman  had  been  there  —  that  it  had  not 
always  been  inhabited  by  a  careless  set  of  bache 
lor  cow-men  alone.  That  rocking-chair,  for 
instance,  was  of  fine  wicker,  self-evidently  a 
woman's  chair.  There  were  several  flower  pots 
on  the  south  window  sills,  although  any  plant 
there  might  once  have  been  was  now  but  a  dead 
and  desolate  stalk. 

"We  forgot  to  water  them,"  explained  Tom, 
with  a  laugh,  when  he  saw  Josephine's  eyes  rest 
ing  upon  these  pathetic  reminders  of  his  careless 
ness.  "I  promised  my  mother  that  I  would  take 
care  of  them  —  and  so  did  Charlie  here.  You 
need  not  grin  so  cheerfully,  my  boy,  you  know 
that  you  are  as  deeply  involved  in  this  affair 
as  I  am.  My  mother  loves  flowers,  Miss  Car- 

[92] 


AT    THE    RANCH    HOUSE 

roll,  and  more  than  that,  I  imagine  that  she 
thinks  the  boys  need  some  refining  influence 
about  them.  Not  I,  of  course,  but  the  boys.  We 
are  an  ornery  lot,  I  suspect.  Anyway,  she  cun 
ningly  tries  to  enlighten  our  souls  to  a  proper 
appreciation  of  the  beautiful.  I  promised  her 
when  she  went  away  that  I  would  take  care  of 
her  posies,  but  I  forgot,  and  Charlie  forgot;  so 
they  died." 

"While  you  are  about  it  you  might  as  well  tell 
why  we're  eatin'  canned  beans  for  dinner,  too, 
stid  o'  spuds  and  ingerns,"  spoke  up  Charlie 
Moore,  casually.  He  was  busily  engaged  upon 
the  consumption  of  a  generous  share  of  the  beans 
in  question,  as  he  spoke. 

"Please  do,"  said  Josephine,  smiling. 

"They  froze." 

"  Oh !    And  how  did  it  happen  ? " 

"Will  you  not  spare  me  the  harrowing  re 
cital?"  begged  Tom,  in  joyous  badinage. 

"Tell  me,"  insisted  Josephine,  gleefully. 

"Well,"  said  Tom,  ruefully,  "if  I  must,  I 
must,  I  suppose.  It  was  this  \\fay.  You 
see  I  have  a  little  brother.  His  name  is 
Louis  and  he  is  eleven,  I  believe,  and  some 
what  of  a  farmer,  with  mother  putting  him 

[93] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

up  to  it  all  the  time.  Louis  had  a  garden 
down  there  on  the  bottom  last  Summer.  The 
boys  liked  him  and  they  all  helped.  We  had 
fine  watermelons  in  August,  and  good  things  all 
Summer  long.  When  he  went  away,  he  left 
explicit  instructions  as  to  just  when  we  must  dig 
up  the  late  potatoes  and  the  onions;  but  we 
kind  of  forgot,  and  one  morning  the  ground  wras 
frozen  through  a  foot  or  more.  It  wras  a  sad  fare 
well,  and  this  has  been  a  long  and  dreary  winter, 
potatoless  and  onionless." 

"What  shocking  shiftlessness,"  laughed  Jose 
phine,  merrily;  "but  you  have  suffered  for  it." 

"Indeed,  we  have,"  responded  Tom,  soberly. 
"Do  you  know,  I  hated  like  the  deuce  —  Miss 
Carroll,  forgive  me,  I  forgot  —  to  own  up  to  the 
little  chap  that  I  had  forgotten  to  take  care  of 
his  garden.  He  did  so  want  the  boys  to  have 
something  good  to  eat  during  the  long,  monoto 
nous  Winter.  Yes,  that  is  the  child's  shelf  there 
in  the  corner.  He  cannot  always  be  carrying  all 
of  his  things  to  and  from  Chicago,  so  he  leaves 
part  of  them  here.  He  persuaded  one  of  the 
boys  to  put  up  that  shelf  in  the  living-room  be 
cause  he  said  it  seemed  a  shame  to  lock  up  his 
treasures  in  his  own  room  when  'You  fellows 

[94] 


AT    THE    RANCH    HOUSE 

might  as  well  be  getting  the  good  of  'em.'  It  is 
a  strange  jumble  of  school  books  and  boy  stories, 
marbles  and  baseball  paraphernalia,  which  he 
brought  with  him,  and  odd  stones,  snake  skins, 
wolf  teeth,  coyote  skins,  bits  of  mica  and  horns  of 
defunct  cattle,  which  he  has  gathered  together 
here  —  and  some  of  the  things  the  Indians  have 
given  him.  Most  of  those  he  took  back  with  him 
to  the  city,  however;  things  like  the  war  bonnet, 
the  moccasins,  the  medicine  pouch,  the  barbed 
arrows,  and  the  shield.  They  would  make  a  vast 
impression  on  his  mates,  you  will  very  readily 
understand.  Yes,  that  is  his  own  rifle.  I  am 
teaching  him  to  use  it.  Poor  chap,!  How  he 
longed  to  take  that  with  him  to  show  the  fellows, 
although  he  knew  that  he  could  never  use  it  there. 
But  the  mother  said,  'No.' ' 

"And  yet  you  could  disappoint  a  child  like  that 
and  forget  his  garden,"  said  Josephine,  reproach- 
fully. 

"It  was  a  shame,  was  n't  it?  But  his  revenge 
is  at  hand.  We  shall  all  have  to  reform  and  learn 
to  farm  whether  we  like  it  or  not.  It  will  soon  be 
a  question  of  our  butter  and  bread.  You  home 
steaders  have  invaded  the  land  at  last.  I  confess 
that  I  have  always  been  surprised  that  you  have 

[95] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

not  done  so  before;  but  you  have  sounded  the 
doom  of  the  cattlemen  all  right.  We  shall 
either  be  compelled  to  turn  grangers  or  else  be 
'a-movin'  on/  as  Henry  said  this  morning." 

Again  the  old  question! 

"One  would  think,"  interposed  Jack,  jestingly 
earnest,  "that  Josephine  and  I  were  not  only 
monsters  of  iniquity,  but  a  multitude  of  monsters 
—  all  hydra-headed.  Now,  Josephine  and  I  are 
only  two  people  and  Josephine  has  but  one  head 
and  I  have  but  one.  I  pledge  you  my  word  of 
honor  that  this  is  true  according  to  my  own  best 
belief  and  judgment." 

They  all  laughed  heartily,  but  Tom  soon  be 
came  grave. 

"You  are  not  the  only  ones,"  he  said.  "It  is 
the  beginning  of  the  end.  Carroll,  do  you  in 
tend  to  abide  by  your  holding,  no  matter  what 
the  consequences  may  be,  and  in  spite  of  hard 
ships,  discouragements,  drought,  and  loneli 
ness?" 

He  looked  at  the  younger  man  keenly  a  mo 
ment.  He  wanted  to  know  the  make  of  Jack 
because  upon  him  depended  many  things,  chief  of 
which  was  the  question  of  the  staying  or  going 
of  Josephine. 

[96] 


AT    THE    RANCH    HOUSE 

"I  do  so  intend,"  replied  Jack,  steadily. 
"Through  good  or  evil  report  —  through  pros 
perity  or  poverty  —  through  happiness  or  sorrow 
—  through  trouble,  pain,  or  death.  All  I  ask  is 
to  be  let  alone.  I  had  better  be  let  alone.  If  I 
am  not,  there  will  be  trouble  —  for  some  one." 


[97] 


CHAPTER  VII 

ONJIJITKA  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY 

river  did  break  up  early,  the  Spring  was 
beautiful,  and  May  time  was  Summer  time  in 
the  cattle  country.  The  hills  were  spotted  far 
and  wide  with  bunches  of  that  uncompromisingly 
stiff  plant  with  its  many  spear-shaped  leaves, 
which  the  natives  call  soap-weed.  Undulating 
barriers  made  of  the  broad-leaved,  prickly  cactus 
that  runs  along  the  ground  sprang  up  every 
where.  Josephine  had  worn  her  heavy  leathern 
leggings  in  the  Winter  for  warmth.  She  con 
tinued  to  wear  them  now  with  thick-soled  shoes 
as  a  protection  against  surprise  from  some  torpid 
rattler  which  might  any  day  now  be  coming  out 
to  stretch  himself  after  his  long  sleep,  and  to 
bask  in  the  warm  sun  of  this  early  Summer.  A 
colony  of  prairie  dogs  had  settled  a  short  distance 
northwest  of  the  Broken  Key,  and  the  little  fel 
lows  chattered  and  squealed  and  dived  in  and  out 
of  their  underground  homes  all  the  live-long  day. 
Slabs  of  mica,  oftentimes  in  layers  as  thin  and 
smooth  as  if  sliced  with  a  knife,  glinted  from  the 

[98] 


A  DISCOVERY 

cut  bluffs  opposite,  or,  catching  the  sun,  glit 
tered  on  the  narrow  slate  gravel  below  where 
they  had  slid  from  some  upper  stratum.  The 
cedars  in  the  gap  and  in  the  gulches  had  changed 
their  rusty  brown  to  a  cleaner,  richer  green. 
The  wild,  stormy  winds  of  Spring  had  settled 
down  into  the  steady  monotones  of  Summer 
breezes  which  went  whispering  through  the  grass 
and  talked  in  mysteries  to  the  tree-tops.  Under 
the  spell  of  it  all,  the  ceaseless  winds,  the  immu 
table  hills,  the  solemn  solitude,  the  haughty  rush 
of  the  big  yellow  river  to  join  the  southern  sea, 
Josephine  forgot  the  longing  for  the  land  of  her 
fathers  which  had  stalked  beside  her  all  through 
the  dreary  Winter  months,  and  the  home  of  the 
South  became  a  sweet  haunting  memory  of  some 
thing  that  had  passed  away  forever. 

On  one  of  these  May  afternoons  when  the  wind 
blew  strongly  over  the  high  table  lands  and 
grieved  in  the  gulches,  Onjijitka,  returning  from 
Velpen,  rode  down  through  the  gap  and  sent  a 
shrill,  penetrating,  but  sweet  halloo  into  the  face 
of  the  wind  across  the  white-capped  water. 
Then,  slipping  from  her  pony,  she  stood  leaning 
against  him,  motionless, .  waiting.  Presently  a 
boat  pushed  out  from  the  island  and  began  its 

[99] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

wavering,  uncertain  course  towards  her.  It  was 
a  huge,  ungainly  looking  object  not  unlike  a 
crudely  built  row-boat,  except  for  its  unusual 
size.  There  was  one  large  oar  near  the  front  re 
quiring  the  rigid  attention  and  constant  labor  of 
two  men,  not  so  much  to  propel  as  to  keep  the 
boat  at  the  proper  angle  with  the  current,  the  cur 
rent  forcing  it  forward  somewhat  in  the  manner 
in  which  the  wind  forces  a  sailboat  when  the 
boat  is  riding  at  right  angles  with  it.  When  with 
a  soft,  sliding  sound,  the  ferry  grounded  on  the 
yielding  sand  of  the  near  shore,  one  of  the  men 
sprang  out  and  secured  it  by  throwing  the  noose 
of  a  heavy  rope  over  a  stake  driven  into  the  earth, 
some  little  distance  up  the  road.  Then  the  second 
man  stepped  slouchily  ashore. 

"So  it's  you,  Rosebud,"  said  the  latter,  gnaw 
ing  off  a  piece  of  villainous-looking  plug  tobacco 
as  he  spoke.  "You  could  n't  have  wraited,  I  sup 
pose,  until  this  cursed  wind  went  down?  " 

"No,  I  could  n't,"  said  Rosebud,  calmly,  lead 
ing  her  pony  to  the  water's  edge. 

"  Oh,  you  could  n't,  could  n't  you?  "  retorted 
LaDue,  his  ready  anger  rising  to  meet  the  cool 
insolence  of  the  tone.  "Well,  young  lady,  the 
chances  are  pretty  much  in  favor  of  you  waitin', 

[100] 


A  DISCOVERY 

whether  it  suits  you  or  not.  Just  don't  you  cast 
off  yet,  Henry.  Wind  's  too  blamed  strong  for 
this  here  boat  to  push  against.  We'll  just  wait 
a  while,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"  I  don't  mind  in  the  least,"  said  Rosebud,  in 
differently.  "Now  that  you  have  come,  I 
should  n't  care  if  we  remained  here  until  moon- 
up,  for  that  matter." 

"Supposin'  Henry  and  I  should  scoot  back 
with  the  boat,  not  hankerin'  perticlar  to  over 
load  'er  with  you  and  your  critter,  what  would 
you  do  then,  eh?" 

"I  should  shoot  the  old  tub  full  of  holes  so 
that  she  would  sink  with  you,"  responded  Rose 
bud,  composedly. 

"Do  you  carry  a  gun,  girl?"  asked  LaDue, 
curiously.  "I  don't  see  none." 

"Put  me  to  the  test  and  then  you  will  know," 
said  Rosebud,  quietly. 

"The  girl's  got  the  drop  on  you,  LaDue," 
called  Henry  Hoffman,  good-naturedly,  from  the 
stake.  "Quit  your  foolin'  and  git  that  there 
cayuse  into  the  boat  if  you're  kakilatin'  on  any 
he'p  from  me." 

"That's  what  you  get  by  caterin'  to  a  she- 
Injun,"  said  LaDue,  grumblingly. 

[101] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

"I  think,  perhaps,  you  had  better  not  call  me 
that  any  more,"  said  Rosebud,  softly. 

"Call  you  what?" 

"  'She-Injun.'    You  had  better  not,  I  think." 

Her  voice  was  low,  emotionless.  Her  soft 
dark  eyes  were  not  upon  him  at  all  but  were  fixed 
dreamily  upon  the  long,  green  timber  line  of  the 
mainland  opposite.  It  looked  farther  away  than 
it  really  was,  somehow,  with  the  wind  blowing 
from  it  and  the  whitecaps  riding  between.  La- 
Due  laughed  loudly. 

"Why,  God  A 'mighty,  girl,"  he  cried,  "but 
you're  puttin'  on  a  lot  o'  airs,  now,  ain't  you? 
What 's  come  over  you  all  o'  a  sudden?  Tell  me 
that,  now,  and  then  we'll  go.  I  ain't  got  no  in 
tentions  o'  campin'  out  here  all  Summer,  if  you 
have.  What 's  come  over  you,  Rosebud?  You 
ain't  contemplatin'  leavin'  your  relations  again, 
are  you?"  He  glanced  at  her  keenly  from  sud 
denly  narrowed  eyes. 

"Never  mind  about  that,"  said  Rosebud,  al 
most  listlessly.  "But  you  had  better  remember 
what  I  said  about  calling  names." 

Leading  her  pony,  she  stepped  into  the  boat 
where,  there  being  no  deck,  the  gritty  little  fellow 
was  compelled  to  stand,  steadying  himself  on  the 

[102] 


A  DISCOVERY 

narrow  flat  bottom.  The  horse  disposed  of  to  her 
satisfaction,  she  turned  her  back  upon  the  men, 
nor  would  she  be  drawn  into  further  conver 
sation.  At  a  sign  from  LaDue,  Henry  cast 
off,  both  men  sprang  on  board,  and  the 
rude  little  ferry  began  its  slow,  tortuous  way 
back  against  the  wind.  Without  a  doubt  it  would 
drift  below  its  original  moorings.  Rosebud,  un 
afraid,  dreamed  day-dreams.  The  men  plied  the 
big  oar  untiringly,  Henry  Hoffman  interestedly. 
He  had  never  seen  anything  just  like  it  until  he 
had  hired  out  to  Frank  LaDue  for  a  season's 
chopping  of  wood.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
heard  but  the  sweep  of  the  Summer  wind  over 
the  boat  and  the  swish  of  the  tawny  water 
slapping  against  the  rough  planking. 

Presently  the  men  began  talking  in  a  desul 
tory  fashion.  Their  voices  were  not  distinct  but 
Rosebud  was  not  interested.  She  did  not  like 
LaDue  and  she  felt  no  curiosity  concerning  the 
new  man  on  the  island.  Men  came  and  went 
there,  giving  place  to  a  new  man  so  quickly  that 
it  was  scarcely  worth  while  to  be  curious  about 
them.  A  man  would  drift  one  day  to  the  island. 
No  one  knew  whence  he  came.  No  one  asked. 
He  would  cut  wood  for  a  while,  haul  it  some- 

[103] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

times  to  ranchmen  off  the  river  front  who  had  no 
timber,  thus  identifying  himself  for  the  time 
being  with  the  interests  of  the  owner  of  the 
island.  After  a  while  he  would  not  be  there  any 
more.  There  would  be  a  new  man  doing  the  same 
old  things.  What  was  the  use  of  being  curious? 
So  Rosebud  did  not  listen. 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  a  little  hissing 
sound  was  borne  to  her  ears,  a  sound  akin  to  the 
warning  of  a  rattle-snake.  It  was  not  a  rattle 
snake's  warning,  and  Rosebud  never  for  one 
moment  thought  that  it  was.  She  knew  perfectly 
well  what  it  was,  and  it  was  because  she  knew 
so  well  that  she  seemed  not  to  hear  at  all.  She 
continued  staring  idly  across  the  turbulent  water. 
Her  Indian  blood  helped  her.  And  yet  what  she 
had  heard  was  only  a  faint  "Sh — she — h — h — ," 
half  whispered  by  one  of  the  men.  There  is 
nothing  so  penetrating  as  a  sibilant  whisper.  It 
is  very  probable  that  had  not  that  hissing  caution 
been  given,  she  would  have  comprehended  noth 
ing  of  the  low-toned  conversation;  but  now  that 
something  was  being  said  that  she  must  not  hear, 
she  would  hear  —  if  she  had  to  stifle  her  own 
breath  which  hindered  her.  They  were  not  say 
ing  much  —  a  word  now  and  then  —  she  could 

[104] 


A  DISCOVERY 

not  hear  —  what  was  that  -  "the  kid's  critter  — 
swim  '  er  across  —  this  evening  — pocket  — 

Rosebud  rode  slowly  and  unconcernedly  across 
the  island  and  stopped  at  the  Broken  Key. 

"I  am  going  to  stay  for  supper,  Josephine," 
she  announced,  calmly. 

Jack  was  not  at  home. 

"It  is  strange  that  you  did  not  meet  him,"  said 
Josephine.  "He  went  to  town  right  after  din 
ner.  We  are  sadly  in  need  of  help,  Rosebud. 
Why,  bless  you,  I  have  turned  herd  boy.  Did  n't 
you  know  that?  I  take  care  of  the  cattle  while 
Jack  farms.  The  house  just  takes  care  of  itself. 
It  looks  dreadful,  I  know.  But  what  is  a  body 
going  to  do  when  she  has  fifty  poor  creatures  to 
minister  unto  ?  I  cannot  let  them  starve.  I  wish 
we  had  kept  that  baby-eyed  cowboy  who  works 
for  our  neighbor.  But  we  did  not  realize  when 
we  let  him  go  in  March  how  much  extra  work  the 
farming  would  make.  He  said  that  he  would 
rather  take  care  of  cattle  than  chop  wood.  Still, 
I  notice  that  he  is  everlastingly  at  it  —  chopping 
wood,  I  mean.  It  is  strange  that  you  did  not 
meet  Jack,  Rosebud." 

An  inscrutable  smile  came  into  Rosebud's  dark 
eyes.  She  had  not  met  Jack  but  she  had  seen 

[105] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

him.  She  had  not  met  him  because  —  well  — 
because  —  and  he  had  not  seen  her  because  she 
had  not  meant  that  he  should  see  her.  She 
thought  to  herself,  a  little  sadly,  that  Josephine 
need  not  be  troubled  about  her  home.  In  Rose 
bud's  eyes,  it  looked  neat  and  sweet  and 
home-like.  Bowls  of  wood  violets  stood  on  the 
rude  table.  White  Swiss  curtains  hung  at  the 
windows.  It  was  true  that  books,  papers,  and 
magazines  were  strewn  rather  carelessly  about, 
but  what  did  it  matter?  The  room  looked  like 
Josephine  and  it  looked  like  —  Jack. 

When  Rosebud  was  gone,  Josephine  sat  down 
on  the  door  step  to  wait  for  Jack.  The  wind  had 
fallen  away.  It  was  very  still.  The  sun  went 
down  and  a  coolness  crept  in^ts  wake.  There 
was  a  thick  growth  of  willows  between  her  and  the 
river  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  feel  it 
rushing  southward.  She  wished  that  Jack  would 
come.  The  evening  was  such  a  lonesome  time 
when  he  was  away.  She  was  afraid  that  she 
might  get  to  thinking  —  thinking  of  a  better  day 
for  them,  when  Jack  was  never  long  gone  and 
when  she  never  had  to  be  alone.  The  evenings 
here  in  the  valley  were  sp  still.  It  was  getting 
dark.  There  would  be  a  moon,  though,  so  she 

[106] 


A  DISCOVERY 

should  not  be  afraid.  She  wondered  what  they 
were  doing  on  the  island.  They  were  not  cutting 
late  to-night.  From  far  away  came  faintly  the 
sound  of  a  coyote's  shrill  bark,  then  another  and 
another,  mellowed  by  distance.  The  far-away 
yelping  continued,  making  the  near  stillness 
stiller  and  the  lonesomeness  more  lonesome.  A 
big  timber  wolf  was  visible  for  a  moment  skulking 
along  the  sky  line  of  the  western  hills  —  then  it, 
too,  was  gone.  An  owl  hooted,  and  at  that  mo 
ment  Rosebud  came  back.  She  was  on  foot  and 
she  glided  noiselessly  around  the  house  like  a 
phantom  of  the  lonely  night. 

"Josephine,"  she  whispered,  holding  out  her 
hand,  "come  with  me  and  quickly!" 

"What  —  where — "  began  Josephine,  startled 
and  bewildered.  She  arose  and  grasped  Rose 
bud's  hand,  chilled  with  sudden  apprehension 
and  glad,  glad,  of  the  friendly  human  touch. 

"Do  not  be  afraid  —  just  come  with  me  and 
quickly.  I  did  not  go  home  —  I  followed  them. 
That  man  LaDue  is  a  —  devil,  Josephine." 
She  was  dragging  Josephine  toward  the  dark 
blur  of  the  island  forest  while  these  breathless 
words  came  in  choking  undertones  from  her  lips. 
"He  will  run  in  Indian  calves  from  the  Reserva- 

[107] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

tion,  will  he?  Let  him  watch  out.  Now  and 
from  henceforth  I,  Onjijitka,  am  camping  on  his 
trail.  You  know  that  he  does  that,  don't  you, 
Josephine  —  runs  in  our  calves  and  hides  them 
here  on  the  island  until  he  can  dispose  of  them  ? 
He  has  not  yet  been  caught  in  the  act  but  we 
know  —  Two  Hawks  knoavs  and  Bear  Heart - 
let  him  beware  of  Bear  Heart — Bear  Heart 
never  forgets  and  his  hate  is  relentless  and  his 
vengeance  sure.  The  agent  knows,  I  think. 
They  know  it  at  the  Seven-up.  Many  know  it 
who  are  afraid.  Afraid,  Josephine,  do  you  hear  ? 
But  Onjijitka  is  not  afraid.  Let  him  look  out. 
Josephine,  have  you  lost  a  cow?" 

"Yes,"  whispered  Josephine,  starting  nerv 
ously  away  from  a  fallen  tree  trunk. 

"You  must  not  be  afraid,"  said  Rosebud,  re 
assuringly.  "They  are  both  at  the  river  by  this 
time.  There  is  no  one  else  on  the  island.  You 
are  sure  about  the  heifer?" 

"Yes,"  assented  Josephine,  trying  desperately 
to  control  the  numb  terror  that  was  creeping  over 
her.     "She  has  been  missing  for  two  days." 
"Would  you  know  the  stray?" 
"Yes.    She  is  the  cow  we  always  milked." 
"We  must  not  talk  any  more  now,"  said  Rose- 

[108] 


A  DISCOVERY 

bud,  in  a  low  voice.    "Do  not  say  a  word.    Just 
follow  me." 

They  turned  aside  from  the  dim  wagon  trail 
into  the  dark  woods  to  the  north.  There  was  no 
light  in  the  cabin  but  they  gave  it  a  wide  berth, 
nevertheless,  and  were  soon  safely  lost  in  the 
labyrinth  of  the  forest.  Presently,  they  turned 
eastward  and  crept  noiselessly  forward  until 
they  came  to  the  end  of  the  timber.  There  they 
halted.  If  they  remained  quiet  there  was  little 
danger  of  discovery.  The  shadows  were  very 
deep.  The  moon,  riding  up  from  the  eastern 
hills,  served  only  to  make  them  the  denser  by 
contrast.  The  usually  murky  water  gleamed 
silver  in  the  white  radiance.  The  river  was  low 
and  a  sandy  beach  stretched  between  the  timber 
line  and  the  water's  edge  where  a  skiff  swung 
lightly  at  its  moorings.  There  was  no  sign  of 
man  or  beast  in  all  the  peaceful  scene.  They  had 
not  long  to  wait.  Very  soon,  two  men  and  a  cow 
emerged  from  out  the  gloom  of  the  forest  so 
close  to  them  that  Josephine  with  difficulty  re 
frained  from  gasping  aloud  in  sheer  nervous 
dread,  and  walked  leisurely  across  the  sandbar. 
Josephine  pressed  Rosebud's  hand  convulsively 
and  Rosebud  understood.  The  men  were  plainly 

[109] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

visible  —  their  identity  easily  determined.  They 
approached  the  boat  wordlessly.  They  were  not 
afraid.  This  was  a  very  lonely  spot.  They  were 
silent  merely  because  there  was  no  necessity  for 
speech.  They  understood  one  another  so  abso 
lutely —  Frank  LaDue  and  his  woodchopper. 
They  stepped  into  the  boat  and  pushed  off,  but 
the  cow  evinced  signs  of  stubbornness,  planted 
her  feet  firmly  in  the  sand  and  refused  to  be 
dragged  into  the  water,  so  that  the  leading  rope 
became  taut  and  strained,  all  to  no  purpose. 
Immediately,  the  men  broke  forth  into  profanity 
which  had  no  effect,  seemingly,  upon  the  cow. 
The  controversy  between  man  and  brute  was 
finally  adjusted,  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  men  at 
least,  by  Henry  Hoffman's  jumping  from  the 
boat  and  shoving  the  animal  into  the  river,  using 
an  oar  for  a  club.  Then  he  himself  ran  into  the 
water,  climbed  into  the  rapidly  receding  skiff,  and 
the  two  men  rowed  across  the  moonlit  water  and 
into  the  heavy  shadows  beyond,  the  cow  swim 
ming  gallantly  in  their  wake. 

"And  he  said,  Josephine,"  whispered  Rose 
bud,  as  the  girls  made  their  way  homeward,  back 
through  the  dark,  island  forest  —  there  was  no 
need  of  whispering  now,  but  it  went  with  the 

[no] 


A  DISCOVERY 

eerie  errand  upon  which  they  had  been  bent  — 
"he  said  —  I  followed  them,  you  know — ah!  he 
little  dreamed  that  the  'she-Injun'  was  so  near. 
He  had  better  not  call  me  names  any  more,  Jose 
phine,  and  he  had  better,  far  better,  stay  off 
the  Indian  lands."  Her  voice  was  low  and  hiss 
ing,  but  beautiful  still.  It  would  always  be  beau 
tiful.  *'She  had  forgotten  what  she  meant  to  say. 
They  came  out  into  the  dim  trail  where  the  moon 
light  filtered  through  the  foliage  overhead;  then 
she  remembered.  "He  said,  Josephine,  'I'll  get 
every  critter  Carroll  owns  if  he  does  n't  get  out 
o'  here  mighty  damned  quick!' ' 

With  a  sinking  heart,  Josephine  recalled 
Jack's  words  the  day  at  the  Seven-up.  "  All  I 
ask  is  to  be  let  alone,"  he  had  said.  "I  had  bet 
ter  be  let  alone.  If  I  am  not,  there  will  be 
trouble  for  some  one." 


[in] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CARROLL  CALLS  ON  HIS  NEIGHBOR 

T  T  was  late  when  Jack  came  home.  He  found 
Josephine  and  Rosebud  still  sitting  on  the 
door  step.  Rosebud  arose  at  once. 

"Josephine  and  I  will  ride  home  with  you," 
said  Jack. 

"Indeed  you  shall  not,"  returned  Rosebud, 
resolutely.  "It  is  too  far.  I  stayed  with  Jose 
phine  because  —  she  will  tell  you  why.  I  am 
going  home  alone." 

"Rosebud,  stay  all  night,"  urged  Josephine. 
"It  is  so  late." 

"The  night  is  not  bad  to  me,"  answered  Rose 
bud.  "You  must  not  forget  that  every  turn  of 
the  old  trail,  every  bunch  of  soapweed  by  the 
wayside,  is  known  to  Onjijitka.  Night  or  day, 
it  is  all  the  same.  Good-night." 

"Onjijitka,"  said  Jack,  with  whimsical  re 
proach  and  with  a  gallant  and  reckless  disregard 
of  the  many  miles  that  lay  between  the  Broken 
Key  and  the  outlying  hut  on  the  Reservation  — 
he  had  a  little  way  of  hesitating  for  a  barely  per- 

[112] 


A  CALL 

ceptible  moment  before  pronouncing  her  name  in 
the  slow,  lovable  voice  that  was  becoming  so  dan 
gerously  sweet  to  the  step-daughter  of  Two 
Hawks  —  "do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  not 
going  to  let  me  ride  home  with  you<?" 

"Onjijitka  has  said.  Good-night."  She 
glided  into  the  shadows  and  was  gone. 

"Heigho!"  yawned  Jack,  throwing  himself 
down  upon  the  spot  where  Rosebud  had  been 
sitting.  "I'm  tired,  Jo,  dead  tired."  It  was 
true.  His  face  showed  pale  and  tired  in  the 
moonlight.  "I  think  perhaps  I  have  found 
some  one  to  help  us  after  a  while  —  in  a  few  days 
—  but  it  was  hard,  tremendously  hard.  I  think 
the  Broken  Key  is  out  of  favor,  Josephine. 
Heigho,  but  I  am  tired!"  He  clasped  his  hands 
behind  his  head  and  rested  so,  leaning  against 
the  door  casing,  his  brown  eyes  staring  thought 
fully  into  the  shadows.  "What  a  pretty  girl 
Onjijitka  is,"  he  said  dreamily. 

"She  is  indeed,"  assented  Josephine,  quietly. 
"Jack,  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

Early  the  next  morning  Jack  sauntered  over 
to  the  island.  Because  the  river  was  low,  he 
walked  dry-shod  across  the  slough.  The  log 
cabin  was  deserted.  The  door  was  standing  open 

[113] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

but  there  was  no  one  within.  The  breakfast 
dishes  stood  unwashed  upon  the  table.  They 
consisted  of  two  tin  cups,  two  tin  plates,  a  like 
number  of  tin  spoons  and  blackened  steel  knives 
and  forks,  with  an  immense  frying  pan  holding 
the  place  of  honor  in  the  centre.  It  had  evidently 
served  the  double  purpose  of  having  the  bacon 
first  cooked  and  then  served  therein.  The  odor 
of  the  fried  meat  still  clung  to  the  close  air  of  the 
low-ceilinged  room.  Should  he  wait?  Surely 
some  one  would  return  presently  to  straighten 
the  untidy  room.  The  sleeping  bunks  were  even 
unmade.  Yes,  he  would  wait  a  bit  —  not  inside 
—  he  would  walk  up  and  down  in  the  sweet  out 
door  air  of  the  early  morning.  He  was  hurt  and 
angry.  He  had  entered  into  the  pioneer  life 
beyond  the  big  river  simply,  whole-heartedly, 
fearlessly,  unsuspiciously.  Suddenly  and  with 
out  warning  he  had  been  struck  in  the  dark.  It 
was  a  rude  awakening. 

The  sun  climbed  higher.  The  plains  country 
winds  could  not  penetrate  to  the  little  clearing 
in  the  heart  of  the  woods  so  that  here  it  was  very 
warm  and  still,  with  the  sun  creeping  insidiously 
through  the  thickening  tree-tops.  Presently 
from  up  stream,  as  he  waited,  came  a  familiar 

[114] 


A  CALL 

sound,  and  soon  the  quiet,  almost  oppressive  air 
was  ringing  with  the  monotonous  repetition  of 
blows  from  an  axe  in  the  hands  of  the  wood 
cutter.  The  day's  work  had  begun.  The  proba 
bilities  were  that  there  would  be  no  returning  to 
the  house  now  until  noon  time.  It  seemed  strange. 
It  was  not  the  way  of  the  men  of  the  West  who 
kept  house  for  themselves  to  leave  until  the 
primitive  bachelor  arrangements  were  as  tidily 
disposed  of  as  it  was  possible  for  them  to  be  under 
the  circumstances.  It  came  to  Jack,  standing 
there  pondering  the  unusualness  of  the  early 
desertion,  that  it  was  a  premeditated  getting 
away.  Perhaps  he  had  been  seen  crossing  the 
slough  and  perhaps  he  was  not  accounted  a  wel 
come  guest.  Well,  he  should  follow  his  neighbor 
to  the  wood-chopping.  He  had  come  to  see  him 
and  he  meant  to  see  him. 

He  found  LaDue  up  in  the  northern  boun 
daries  of  the  island,  alone,  cutting  up  a  gigantic 
cottonwood  that  had  been  felled  a  few  days  be 
fore.  The  man  ceased  his  labors,  leaned  his  axe 
against  a  tree,  and  wiped  his  streaming  face  with 
a  much  soiled  handkerchief. 

"Oh,  it 's  you,"  he  said,  indifferently. 

"Yes,"  said  Jack.     "I  stopped  at  the  house, 

[115] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

but  finding  no  one  there,  I  came  here.  I  heard 
the  sound  of  your  axe." 

"Wasn't  Henry  to  the  house?" 

"I  did  not  see  him." 

"He  must  have  been  'round  some  'ers.  Fine 
day." 

"It  is,  indeed.  I  came  over  to  see  you,  Mr. 
LaDue,  about  a  little  matter  of  business  that  I 
am  sure  you  will  be  able  to  explain  satisfactorily," 
began  Jack.  He  paused  a  moment. 

"Well,  spit  'er  out.  I  got  a  lot  o'  work  to  do 
to-day,  sonny,"  responded  LaDue,  with  sug 
gestive  impatience. 

"All  right,"  said  Jack,  quietly,  although  the 
hot,  impulsive  blood  burned  in  his  face  and 
tingled  at  his  finger  tips  so  that  he  longed  to 
knock  his  neighbor  down.  "I  shall  not  keep  you 
long.  Briefly,  then,  this  is  the  way  of  it.  Last 
night,  my  sister  saw  you  and  your  man  cross  one 
of  the  Broken  Key  milch  cows  to  the  other  side. 
The  animal  has  been  missing  for  two  or  three 
days.  Now,  I  know  how  easy  it  is,  Mr.  LaDue," 
continued  Jack,  diplomatically,  "to  mistake 
cattle  when  they  run  at  large,  and  it  was  after 
night,  too,  when  you  crossed  this  one.  Mine  have 
been  feeding  right  here,  near  home,  and  I  know 

[H6l 


A  CALL 

that  many  of  them  stray  over  to  the  island.  But 
we  have  decided  to  let  them  feed  north  of  the  big 
gulch  again  so  that  there  need  be  no  more  trouble. 
Is  it  not  so?" 

LaDue's  face  was  convulsed  with  a  great  rage. 
His  narrow  eyes  gleamed  malignantly  from 
beneath  his  heavy  brows.  His  black,  bristly, 
seven-days'  beard  gave  him  a  peculiarly  unkempt 
appearance,  as  his  house  had  looked  when  he 
left  it. 

"Now,  you  look  here,  young  feller,"  he  said, 
"you'll  do  well  to  mind  your  own  business. 
Don't  you  know  that  yet  ?  If  you  don't,  you'll 
do  a' mighty  well  to  learn.  This  ain't  a  meddlin' 
country  and  we  have  a  pretty  good  way  o'  teach 
ing  fool  tenderfeet  who  don't  know  their  place 
nor  their  business  —  well,  if  we  don't  exactly 
teach  '  em  their  business,  we  have  a  first-rate  way 
o'  showin'  'em  pretty  plain  what  ain't  their 
business.  Takin'  that  in?  Well,  I  did  cross 
a  cow  last  night  —  my  own  critter  she  was  — 
and  Henry  drove  her  to  the  rest  o'  the  bunch 
in  the  hills.  Now,  then,  is  that  explanation 
enough  for  you  ?  You  would  n't  have  got  the 
half  from  Frank  LaDue  if  you  were  n't  my 
neighbor." 

[117] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

He  reached  for  his  axe  as  if  the  subject  and  the 
call  as  well  were  both  at  an  end. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Jack,  firmly.  "That  is 
not  explanation  enough.  I  had  hoped  that  we 
might  settle  this  —  this  disagreement  amicably 
and  I  still  hope  that  you  will  see  the  wisdom  of 
not  letting  this  affair  go  any  farther  and  will 
agree  to  end  it  right  here  and  now  peacefully  and 
with  no  one  the  wiser.  Onjijitka  — 

"Thievin',  lyin'  Sioux!"  muttered  LaDue, 
with  a  scornful  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 

For  a  moment,  it  seemed  as  if  Jack  would 
spring  at  the  man's  throat  and  throttle  him,  so 
enraged  was  he  at  the  brutal  remark,  but  he  con 
trolled  himself. 

"Onjijitka,"  he  continued,  steadily,  "my  sis 
ter's  very  dear  friend  —  and  mine  —  overheard, 
yesterday,  your  arrangements  with  Henry  Hoff 
man  on  the  boat  to  'cross  Carroll's  critter'  when 
the  wind  went  down.  After  supper,  she  fol 
lowed  you  to  the  place  where  you  had  concealed 
the  animal.  She  heard  you  say,  LaDue,  that  you 
meant  to  have  all  of  my  stock  if  I  stayed  here. 
That  was  not  very  neighborly,  now,  was  it  ? 
Why  you  should  desire  my  removal  from  the 
country  so  heartily  at  the  same  time  that  you 

[118] 


A  CALL 

plan  to  make  a  good  thing  out  of  my  poor'  little 
herd  is  more  than  I  can  comprehend,"  he  con 
cluded,  a  little  wistfully. 

LaDue's  anger  had  seemingly  passed  away 
during  this  brief  recital  and  he  was  now  uncon 
cernedly  rolling  a  cigarette.  He  sat  down  upon 
the  fallen  log  as  if  he  had  changed  his  mind  about 
being  in  a  hurry  and  reached  for  a  wide  chip 
which  he  whittled  idly.  Instantly,  Jack  became 
stern  again. 

"But  if  you  think  to  force  me  out  of  the  way 
by  such  means,  I  tell  you  now,  LaDue,  frankly, 
that  you  might  as  well  spare  yourself  any  fur 
ther  trouble,  for  I  will  never  go.  Do  you  hear? 
I  will  never  go  —  alive."  He  paused  a  moment, 
then  continued:  "So  Onjijitka  went  back  and 
told  my  sister  and  they  made  your  rendezvous, 
too,  together,  only  they  kept  back  in  the  timber 
and  they  saw  —  all  that  there  was  to  see.  The 
moon  was  very  bright,  you  will  remember." 

LaDue  waited  until  he  had  whittled  away  the 
last  splinter  in  his  chip  and  had  begun  on  another ; 
then  he  said,  tolerantly: 

"You  never  can  believe  Injuns,  Carroll. 
They're  the  biggest  liars  and  thieves  in  the  world 
and  half-breeds  are  the  worst  o'  all.  You  ain't 

[119] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

learned  much  if  you  ain't  learned  that  yet.  No 
one  in  this  here  country '11  trust  a  half-breed  out 
o'  his  sight.  Anybody's  cattle  is  their  cattle. 
That  squaw  was  just  makin'  trouble.  She  may 
have  your  critter  herself  for  all  I  know,  or  else 
that  thievin'  ol'  renegade  of  a  Two  Hawks.  He 
does  n't  make  no  pretensions  o'  livin'  on  any 
thing  but  'slowelk.'  If  you'd  have  told  me  in 
the  first  place  that  this  squaw  critter  had  been 
stuffin'  you,  I  wouldn't  have  been  so  all-fired 
mad  as  I  was,  because  I  know  Injuns.  I  killed 
a  Injun  once  for  rustlin'  one  o'  my  critters,"  he 
concluded,  casually. 

"Shall  we  leave  Onjijitka  out  of  the  question 
for  the  present?"  said  Jack,  with  cold  authority. 
"Miss  Carroll  saw  the  cow  and  knew  it  for  our 
own.  That  is  enough,  I  think.  Now,  what  are 
you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"Aho!  So  that 's  the  way  the  wind  blows,  is 
it?"  said  LaDue,  with  a  disagreeable  chuckle. 
"I  was  askin'  her  only  yesterday  why  she  was 
puttin'  on  so  many  airs." 

"I  asked  you,"  said  Jack,  now  white  with 
passion,  "what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"And  I  answer  you,"  replied  LaDue,  "not  a 
damned  thing ! " 

[120] 


A  CALL 

"If  you  do  not  deliver  that  cow  to  me  before 
noon  on  the  day  after  to-morrow,  I  shall  make 
you  sweat  for  it,"  said  Jack,  deliberately. 

"Do!  Go  ahead!"  taunted  LaDue.  "I  defy 
you!  Prove  that  was  not  my  cow,  will  you? 
How  are  you  goin'  to  do  it  ?  Tell  me  that,  now !" 

"You  know  very  well  how  I  shall  prove  it. 
I  mean  what  I  say.  I  understand  perfectly, 
now,  that  little  calf  deal.  And  you  dared  to  in 
sinuate  that  I  rustled  that  calf  from  you !  That 
incident  may  not  be  closed  after  all.  But  leaving 
the  calf  altogether  out  of  the  question,  I  shall 
prosecute  you  just  as  surely  as  the  cow  is  not 
returned  to  me  by  noon  of  the  day  after  to 
morrow.  I  give  you  until  then  because 
to-morrow  we  shall  be  at  Lower  Brule  for  the 
games.  We  go  as  far  as  Velpen  to-night.  I 
trust  that  you  understand  me  thoroughly?" 

The  islander's  passion  was  something  terrible 
to  see. 

"You  —  you  —  upstart,"  he  choked,  "do  you 
think  for  a  moment  that  there  won't  be  a  way 
found  for  plasterin'  your  damned  mouth  be 
fore  you  have  a  chance  to  regale  the  officers  with 
your  pack  o'  petticoat  lies?  A  pretty  sort  o' 
woman  your  sister  must  be  to  go  spyin'  'round 

[121] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

on  the  doin's  o'  men.  How  could  she  tell  whose 
blamed  cow  that  was,  and  at  night  ?  It  was  a 
sorry  day  for  her  when  she  strayed  away  from 
her  own  and  took  to  her  din'  with  this  bunch  west 
o'  the  river.  A  sorry  day  and  you  can  tell  her 
so  for  me.  Now,  then,  young  man,  what  are  you 
goin'  to  do  about  it  ?" 

"I  have  told  you,"  said  Jack,  quietly.  "You 
have  until  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

He  nodded  curtly,  turned,  and  strode  quickly 
homeward. 

Left  alone,  LaDue  fingered,  restlessly,  some 
thing  that  lay  in  a  heavy  holster  at  his  hip. 
There  was  an  ugly  look  in  his  eyes. 

"Why  didn't  you?"  asked  Henry  Hoffman, 
lounging  into  view  with  the  oars  of  the  skiff  over 
his  big  shoulders.  There  was  a  quizzical  look  in 
his  blue  eyes  as  he  spoke. 

"I  did  n't  want  to  freeze  you  out  of  the  game, 
Henry,"  said  LaDue,  calmly,  reaching  for  his 
axe. 


[122] 


CHAPTER   IX 

UP  THE  MISSOURI 

nn HE  Wild  West  celebration  to  which  Jack 
referred  was  not  to  be  a  tawdry  imitation  of, 
nor  a  burlesque  on  the  peculiarities  and  environ 
ments  of  range  life.  It  was  to  be  a  real,  active, 
though  friendly  rivalry  between  real  cowboys, 
with  real,  well-earned  records  to  make  or  break 
and  with  real  brands  to  represent,  brands  that 
were  carried  by  thousands  of  animals  and  were 
known  far  and  wide  over  the  range  country. 
This  competitive  trial  of  skill  was  to  be  held  at 
Lower  Brule  Agency  for  two  reasons.  First, 
because  the  Indians  were  interested,  but  chiefly 
because  it  was  neutral  ground  for  the  cowmen 
of  the  Bad  River  country  and  those  of  the  south, 
accounting  the  Agency  the  dividing  line.  Be 
tween  these  two  sections  was  a  friendly  feud  of 
long-standing  rivalry  and  the  coming  contest  had 
been  planned  to  settle  some  old  scores,  to  decide 
some  disputed  points,  and  above  all,  to  inter 
rupt,  however  briefly,  the  unruffled  monotony 
of  the  daily  life  of  the  cowboy  pioneer. 

With  Jack  and  Josephine  Carroll,  when  they 

[123] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

rode  into  Velpen  the  evening  before  the  day  of 
the  games,  were  Tom  Burrington,  of  the  Seven- 
up,  his  mother  and  young  brother  Louis,  but 
lately  out  from  Chicago,  the  boy  driving  his 
mother  in  the  buggy  while  Tom  rode  his  favorite 
mount,  a  blooded  animal  but  a  famous  cow  horse 
none  the  less;  Rosebud  and  her  step-brother, 
Bear  Heart,  son  of  Two  Hawks,  of  the  Rosebud 
Indian  Reservation.  Bear  Heart  was  a  full- 
blooded,  square-shouldered  Sioux,  who  held  as 
sacred  the  traditions  of  the  past;  who  dreamed 
of  a  rehabilitated  freedom  and  glory  for  his 
people,  and  who  had  promptly  rejected  the 
proffered  advantages  of  civilization  by  running 
away  from  Carlisle,  whither  Two  Hawks,  at  the 
earnest  solicitation  of  Rosebud,  warmly  seconded 
by  the  Missionary  Bishop,  had  sent  him  in  a 
moment  of  unguarded  and  listless  indifference. 
Bear  Heart  had  stoically  refused  to  go  back  and 
Two  Hawks  had  not  insisted. 

The  little  party  went  straight  to  the  hotel. 
There  seemed  to  be  an  unusual  number  of  men 
hanging  around  the  lobby.  M any  left  the  room 
upon  the  arrival  of  the  new  guests,  three  of 
whom  were  ladies,  but  they  did  not  go  far.  They 
collected  in  small  groups  outside,  not  talking 

[124] 


UP  THE  MISSOURI 

much,  but  a  plainly  discernible  air  of  expectancy 
pervaded  each  and  every  one  as  if  something  of 
supreme  interest  was  booked  to  happen  before 
long  and  no  one  wished  to  be  very  far  off 
when  the  entry  was  called.  While  Jack  regis 
tered  for  the  party,  Tom  stepped  out  to  give 
orders  for  the  care  of  their  horses.  Upon  re- 
entering  the  room,  he  was  casually  approached 
by  a  prominent  merchant  of  the  town  in  company 
with  a  neighbor  from  the  White  River  country. 
Talking  ceased  all  at  once  among  the  smokers 
who  had  elected  to  remain.  The  women  had  gone 
upstairs. 

"Hello,  Burrington,"  greeted  the  man  from 
White  River. 

"Why,  hello,  Symes.  So  you  are  frittering 
away  good  time,  too,  are  you,  going  up  to  watch 
those  fool  boys  play  monkey  shines  ?  We  ought 
by  rights  to  be  in  better  business.  Are  you  going 
up  on  the  boat?" 

'f.Nope.  Not  me.  I  got  to  feel  leather  be 
tween  my  knees  when  I  'm  travellin'  or  I  ain't 
comfortable.  Mr.  Budlong,  here,  and  the  whole 
Velpen  aggregation  are  goin'  up  that  way, 
though.  I  suppose  you  are,  too,  seein's  you've 
got  your  women  folks  with  you." 

[125] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

"Yes,  we  are  going  to  take  it  easy  this  time. 
Who  are  entering  from  down  our  way,  Symes  ? 
I  have  been  too  blamed  busy  to  keep  posted. 
What  is  going  to  happen?" 

"Oh,  the  usual  things  —  horse  racing  and 
bronc'  busting  and  such  child's  play.  Of  course 
you  're  goin'  in  for  the  ropin'  contest,  ain't  you, 
Burrington?" 

There  was  a  faint  suggestion  of  anxiety  in  the 
matter-of-fact  question.  Jack  sauntered  over  to 
the  group,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  waiting  for 
the  women  to  come  down  to  go  into  the  dining- 
room  for  a  late  supper. 

"Not  this  time,"  said  Tom,  carelessly.  "I  am 
all  out  of  practice.  It  is  too  hard  work,  anyway. 
I  am  getting  lazy." 

He  turned  at  the  sound  of  a  step  on  the  stair. 
It  was  only  Louis,  ill-content  unless  within 
sound  of  his  big,  gray-eyed  hero's  voice.  He 
perched  himself  on  the  middle  stair  and  prepared 
to  listen  to  what  was  going  on  while  still  obeying 
his  mother's  request  that  he  wait  for  her  and 
Josephine  and  Rosebud. 

"But,  Mr.  Burrington,"  interposed  Budlong, 
anxiously,  "we  have  counted  on  you  all  the  time. 
The  boys  are  all  agreed.  Velpen  is  betting 

[1261 


UP  THE  MISSOURI 

heavily  on  you.  Why,  you  must  enter.  We 
simply  cannot  get  along  without  you." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  something  to  say 
in  this  matter,"  said  Tom,  with  a  laugh,  "and  so 
I  say  that  the  boys  had  better  call  their  bets  off. 
I  am  not  going  in.  I  never  thought  about  it 
seriously  and — I  'd  rather  not." 

The  men  who  had  vacated  the  room  but  a  little 
while  ago  now  began  filing  slowly  back  again. 
They  were  impatient  for  the  result  of  the  plainly 
premeditated  interview. 

"But  it's  this  way,  Tom,"  urged  Symes. 
"The  Pierre  fellows  are  coming  down,  whole 
droves  strong.  There 's  a  regular  stampede 
of  'em,  and  they  're  makin'  a  lot  o'  talk  about  a 
wonder  they've  got  up  there.  They're  braggin' 
there  ain't  ary  a  man  in  the  State  can  beat  'im 
—  and  we  are  bound  to  call  that  bluff.  We're 
all  agreed  on  you.  There  ain't  nobody  else  we 
can  dare  trust  agin'  that  there  miracle  fellow 
they  're  blowin'  so  much  about.  He  's  a  new 
one.  I  never  heard  o'  him  before.  More'n 
likely  he  ain't  so  much,  after  all,  but  we  can't 
afford  to  run  no  risks.  For  the  honor  o'  old 
Kemah,  we've  got  to  stop  the  big  talk  o'  those 
fellows  up  north.  Ain't  that  so?" 

[127] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

"Well,  but  see  here,  boys,"  said  Tom,  includ 
ing  in  his  response  the  entire  group,  who  by  this 
time  had  frankly  surrounded  him,  ready  to  lend 
their  persuasive  powers,  if  necessary,  in  order  to 
win  their  point,  "I  feel  the  honor  and  all  that  — 
you  know  that,  don't  you?  —  it  is  mighty  good  of 
you  boys  to  —  to  —  well,  to  think  that  I  could 
do  it  — "  he  was  visibly  embarrassed,  for  Jose 
phine  had  at  last  appeared  around  the  bend  in 
the  stairway  and  was  standing  quietly  behind 
Louis,  waiting — "I  appreciate  your  high  rating 
of  me  —  it  is  really  downright  good  of  you- — 
but  that  is  one  reason  why  I  hesitate.  In  fact, 
I  cannot  do  it,  boys.  I  should  only  disappoint 
you.  I  should  stand  no  more  show  of  winning 
than  a  jack-rabbit.  That 's  honest.  I  am  all  out 
of  practice.  I  have  not  half  thrown  a  rope  in  ages 
and  I  do  not  know  when  I  have  made  a  tie.  I 
should  like  to  accommodate  you  —  but  I  can't 
do  it.  I  should  lose  for  you  and  that  I  should 
hate  like  the  dev  —  deuce.  Get  some  one  of  whom 
you  can  be  sure.  I  am  all  out  of  training  and  I 
cannot  do  it." 

"You're  the  only  one  we  are  sure  of,  Tom, 
and  that 's  why  you  Ve  got  to  enter.  You  don't 
need  no  practice.  You  '11  git  there  anyway. 

[128] 


UP  THE  MISSOURI 

You  always  do.  There  ain't  a  man  west  o'  the 
river  can  throw  a  rope  like  you  —  you  know  that, 
Tom  —  practice  or  no  practice." 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Tom,  meditatively,  "who 
can  we  get  to  fight  for  our  honor?  There  is 
Henry  Hoffman.  I  can  vouch  for  him.  He  used 
to  outride  for  me.  He  was  the  best  hand  with  a 
rope  I  ever  saw.  I  think  he  works  for  Frank 
LaDue  now.  Why  don't  you  get  him?  He 
comes  from  the  Southwest  and  that  is  a  recom 
mendation  in  itself." 

"No  woodchoppers  for  us,"  said  a  cow- 
puncher  on  the  outskirts,  with  a  disdainful  shrug 
of  his  shoulders.  :<  Thirty-seven  seconds  'd  make 
him  look  purty  sick,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"A  fellow  that 's  been  haulin'  wood  since 
March,"  said  Symes,  argumentatively,  "is 
more'n  likely  somewhat  out  o'  practice,  too." 

"But  I  can't  take  my  horse  on  the  boat," 
pleaded  Tom,  "and  I  am  not  alone,  you  know. 
I  am  with  a  party.  I  can't  leave  them." 

"We  '11  see  to  it  that  that  wall-eyed  cayuse  of 
yours  is  on  the  boat,"  returned  Symes,  promptly. 
"Waitly  '11  take  him  if  we  boys  insist.  Well,  we 
insist  —  so  that 's  a  go." 

"Have   you    any    further   objections    to  "put 

[129] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

forth?"  asked  Budlong,  with  an  appreciative 
smile  at  the  inexhaustibility  of  Symes's  argu 
ments  and  the  readiness  with  which  he  marshalled 
them  forth  to  meet  any  and  all  objections. 

"I  cannot  think  of  any  more  now,"  laughed 
Tom,  helplessly.  "But  I  am  afraid  that  you  will 
be  sorry.  I  will  do  the  best  I  can  —  you  know 
that,  don't  you?  But  I  tell  you  now  that  I  can 
never  make  it  in  thirty-seven  seconds.  If  that 
'miracle  fellow'  can  —  well,  remember  that  I 
warned  you." 

"Then  that 's  settled,"  said  Symes,  with  a  sigh 
of  relief,  and  the  crowd  dispersed  with  noisy 
self-congratulations  upon  the  successful  installa 
tion  of  their  unanimous  choice  of  a  champion. 

The  Susie,  temporarily  out  of  commission  as  a 
ferryboat,  left  her  wharf  promptly  at  five  o'clock 
on  the  morning  of  the  big  day  of  the  sports. 
No  delay  would  be  tolerated  by  her  impatient  pa 
trons,  for  the  programme  of  events  was  scheduled 
to  open  immediately  after  the  early  twelve  o'clock 
dinner  and,  counting  on  her  best  time  and  that  no 
obstacles  would  be  encountered,  such  as  becom 
ing  annoyingly  and  indefinitely  stranded  upon 
a  sand-bar,  the  boat  could  not  possibly  make  the 
distance  short  of  eleven.  The  early  morning  air 

[130] 


UP  THE  MISSOURI 

was  soft  and  cool  and  still.  The  fussy  little  gaso 
line  boat  ploughed  her  way  right  gallantly  up  the 
yellow,  turbulent  channel,  wisely  keeping  close 
in  shore  whenever  feasible  in  order  to  follow  the 
line  of  least  resistance. 

"I  am  so  glad  that  you  consented  to  uphold 
our  standard,"  said  Josephine,  smilingly.  "I 
was  afraid  that  you  were  going  to  refuse  right 
out  of  hand,  and  then  whatever  should  we  have 
done?" 

They  had  obtained  seats  on  the  west  side  of  the 
engine  house,  all  the  party  from  the  Seven-up, 
the  Broken  Key,  and  the  Reservation,  so  as  to  be 
well  out  of  the  way  of  the  late  May  sun  when 
he  should  have  warmed  up  to  the  work  of  the 
day.  The  rude  camp  stools  of  the  women  were 
propped  against  the  outer  wall  to  afford  support 
for  feminine  backs,  but  Tom  and  Jack  stood  in 
front  of  them  leaning  carelessly  against  the  rail 
ing,  while  the  moody  Indian,  heedless  of  sun  and 
disdaining  the  continued  companionship  of  the 
loquacious  whites,  soon  wandered  forward  and 
sat  down  upon  the  huge  coil  of  rope  that  would 
later  secure  the  boat  to  the  landing  at  the  Agency, 
and  gazed  silently,  impassively,  at  the  panorama 
of  bluff  and  gulch  and  mouth  of  creek,  the  glint 

[131] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

of  sun-struck  mica  and  the  dazzle  of  the  white 
chalk  rock  with  its  corrugated  surface  where  the 
rains  and  melted  snows  of  centuries  had  worn 
their  way  to  the  river  below,  leaving  innumerable 
little  crinkles  in  their  wake  to  bear  witness  to  the 
constant  erosion  that  had  carved  and  scarred  the 
rugged  face  of  the  bluffs  of  the  Big  Muddy. 
Louis  neither  sat  nor  stood;  he  was  everywhere. 

"  It  is  all  foolishness,"  responded  Tom,  soberly. 
Besides  the  disappointment  that  he  feared  he 
must  inflict  upon  his  friends,  he  had  suddenly 
developed  an  intense  aversion  to  making  a  show 
of  himself  before  this  gentle-mannered,  high 
bred  girl  from  the  Old  South,  he  who  had  so  often 
played  the  game  with  joyous  zest.  He  was 
whittling  away  at  a  diamond  willow  which  he 
had  seized  when,  to  avoid  a  huge,  floating  log, 
the  boat  had  veered  in  close  to  the  shore.  "I 
shall  only  disappoint  the  boys.  I  know  my 
limitations.  I  should  not  be  afraid  to  try  if  I 
were  in  training,  but  as  it  is  — 

"I  am  like  the  boys,"  said  Josephine,  gayly. 
"I  have  no  fear.  We  have  builded  our  faith  on 
a  rock,"  she  added,  slowly,  writh  just  a  percepti 
ble  darkening  of  the  frank  eyes.  "I  do  not 
forget,  you  see,  when  I,  even  I,  came  under  your 

[132] 


UP  THE  MISSOURI 

all-conquering  noose.  Any  one  capable  of  rop 
ing  a  hysterical  girl,  teetering  down  stream  on  a 
bit  of  crazy  ice,  need  surely  have  no  uneasiness 
about  a  clumsy  quadruped." 

"Ah,  but  you  did  not  time  me,  Miss  Carroll," 
retorted  Tom.  "I  was  doubtless  an  hour  at  it; 
and  moreover,  I  object  to  that  term  'hysterical.' 
I  am  here  to  testify  that  you  never  made  a  sound. 
You  neither  screamed  nor  cried  nor  moaned. 
You  were  pretty  white,  I  confess,  but  you  were  — 
very  brave." 

"Paralyzed,"  said  Josephine,  banteringly,  "or 
posing,  maybe,  for  your  lordship's  approval." 

"That  being  the  case,  I  admire  your  superb 
self-control  more  than  ever,"  said  Tom,  with  a 
laugh  of  unbelief. 

"Do  not  talk  about  it,  children,"  interrupted 
Mrs.  Burrington.  "It  positively  makes  me 
shudder  just  to  think  about  it.  Do  talk  about 
something  pleasant." 

But  before  the  subject  was  shifted,  Josephine 
flashed  him  a  tiny  smile  as  she  said,  softly,  "Re 
member,  your  friends  have  perfect  faith  in  you," 
and  Tom  bowed  his  handsome  head  in  grave  ac 
knowledgment  and  wished  that  he  might  fairly 
justify  her  confidence,  on  the  field,  but  in  his 

[133] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

heart  he  was  dubious  of  what  the  close  of  the 
afternoon  should  bring  forth. 

"I  say,  Tom,"  panted  Louis,  coming  up  at 
that  moment  in  great  haste,  his  blue  eyes  snap 
ping  with  excitement  and  scorn,  his  chubby  face 
hot  and  moist  from  too  long  a  stay  on  the  sunny 
side,  "he  says  you  are  going  to  get  beat  all  to 
nothing.  I  heard  him  telling  somebody  that  you 
were  too  stuck  up  for  this  country,  anyway,  but 
that  you  would  get  your  medicine  this  afternoon." 

"Hold  on  there,  lad,"  interrupted  Tom,  good- 
naturedly,  tossing  his  willow  into  the  current, 
catching  up  the  small  boy  and  elevating  him  to  a 
position  on  the  railing,  where  he  held  him  firmly. 
"  Who  says  what  ?  Slow  and  easy  now." 

"Why,  Frank  LaDue,  of  course.  He  's  talk 
ing  over  there  with  some  fellows. and  he  said  that 
Pierre  man  was  the  best  ever.  He  said  he  had 
every  record  in  cattledom  beat.  Now,  what  do 
you  think  of  that?" 

He  slipped  away  from  Tom's  grasp  and  bal 
anced  himself  dexterously  without  holding  on  to 
the  railing,  while  the  big  brother  who  loved  him 
eyed  him  sharply,  but  made  no  move  to  lay  hold 
of  him  again,  in  spite  of  the  mother's  protests. 

"  He  said  he  hoped  you  would  get  beat  even  if 


UP  THE  MISSOURI 

you  did  belong  to  his  diggings  —  it  would  serve 
you  plumb  right  —  that  you  were  altogether  too 
smart  and  were  a  little  too  blamed  sure  that  you 
were  the  biggest  frog  in  the  puddle.  You  are, 
too,  Tom,  and  that 's  the  joke  of  it.  Well, 
mother,  you  need  n't  frown  at  'blamed.'  I  made 
that  over  for  your  special  benefit.  He  said 
'damned,'  and  worser  ones,  too,  before  he  was 
through.  His  dictionary  is  n't  like  ours,"  he 
went  on,  airily  and  slangily,  "but  of  its  kind,  it 
is  surely  a  dandy.  He  said  you  strutted  around 
like  God  Almighty  —  well,  mother,  he  did.  I  'm 
just  quoting,  and  quoting  isn't  swearing,  is  it? 
Now  what  do  you  think  of  that?  I  snickered 
right  out.  I  couldn't  help  it.  He  hadn't  seen 
me  before  and  oh,  gee !  did  n't  he  look  mad, 
though?  But  he  said  he  hoped  you  would  hear 
what  he  'd  said  —  it  might  do  you  some  good. 
And  he  'd  have  spit  tobacco  on  me,  careless-like, 
if  I  had  n't  been  too  quick  for  him.  Old  snake- 
in-the-grass !  When  he  got  up  he  said  something 
kind  of  under  his  breath  about  your  'Colloguin' 
with  tattlers  and  interlopers  and  land-grabbers.' 
'Colloguin'  isn't  in  my  dictionary,"  he  con 
cluded  ingenuously,  but  no  one  helped  him  to  a 
better  understanding. 

[135] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

Jack's  smooth,  boyish  face  hardened,  Jose 
phine's  became  wistful,  while  Rosebud  tapped 
the  floor  with  her  moccasined  right  foot,  nerv 
ously.  Tom  alone  seemed  unmoved,  but  Mrs. 
Burrington,  who  knew  him  best,  perceived  that 
his  keen  but  usually  laughing  eyes  had  narrowed 
ever  so  slightly,  which  was  a  bad  sign. 

"To  me,  that  has  an  ugly  ring,"  said  Jack. 
"Look  out  for  foul  play,  Tom." 

"If  there  is  going  to  be  any  trickery,"  said 
Mrs.  Burrington,  imploringly,  "for  goodness' 
sake,  Tom,  keep  out  of  it.  You  said  that  you 
would  not  go  in.  Don't  have  anything  to  do 
with  the  wretched  affair.  It  is  a  constant  wonder 
to  me  why  I  will  come  back  to  this  uncanny 
country.  Every  Summer,  I  make  up  my  mind 
firmly  that  it  shall  be  my  last  and  yet  here  I  am 
again,  silly  old  woman  that  I  am,  to  whom  gray 
hairs  have  brought  no  corresponding  sense.  A 
nice  situation  this,,  for  an  old  woman  and  a  babe!" 

"Babe!  I  don't  see  any  babe,"  exploded 
Louis,  fearful  for  his  dignity  when  he  was  so 
soon  to  be  a  man  of  affairs  in  the  cattle  country 
—  like  Tom.  "And,  Tom,  I  'd  beat  or  bust  now 
if  I  were  you.  Me  and  Bear  Heart  '11  watch  out 
for  foul  play,  won't  we,  old  fellow?"  he  con- 

[136] 


UP  THE   MISSOURI 

eluded,  appealing  to  his  good  friend,  the  Indian, 
who  had  left  his  position  on  the  coil  of  rope  and 
sauntered  forward. 

The  Indian  nodded  gravely. 

"Bear  Heart  and  the  little  brother  will  watch," 
he  said  unemotionally. 

"What  a  tempest  in  a  tea-pot,  to  quote  you, 
mother,"  said  Tom,  laughing  heartily.  "There 
will  be  no  trickery.  Our  friend  dislikes  me  so 
thoroughly  that  he  has  pinned  his  faith  to  this  wise 
man  who  has  come  out  of  the  North.  That  is 
all.  It  is  easy  to  prophesy  catastrophe  for  those 
you  hate.  Trickery?  That  is  not  the  game  we 
cowmen  play."  His  face  became  stern.  "We 
play  the  game  fair  or  we  play  it  not  at  all.  Don't 
think  for  a  minute  that  I  shall  submit  to  trickery. 
That  word,"  he  smiled  suddenly,  winningly,  "is 
not  in  my  dictionary." 


[137] 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  CONTEST 

OOME  squaws,  waist  deep  in  the  shore  water 
washing  print  garments,  ducked  behind  a 
drift  of  logs  as  the  Susie  slanted  in  toward  the 
landing.  They  resented  the  amused  stare  of  the 
passengers,  refused  to  furnish  entertainment  for 
the  insolent  white  man,  and  so  hid  themselves 
with  only  their  heads  appearing  above  the  logs, 
their  black  eyes  snapping  defiance.  A  cavalcade 
of  cowboys  swept  down  to  meet  the  incoming  boat 
with  much  clatter  of  hoofs  and  with  clouds  of 
dust.  A  boat  landing  at  Lower  Brule  under 
ordinary  circumstances  was  a  novelty,  but  this 
one  was  possessed  of  unusual  interest  because  it 
had  been  early  bruited  about  that  he  whom  the 
cattlemen  south  of  the  Agency  were  to  present  as 
the  champion  roper,  was  travelling  hither  that 
way.  Symes  was  there  to  see  to  it  that  Burring- 
ton  had  not  changed  his  mind,  though  there  was 
little  fear  of  that,  for  his  word  once  given  was 
never  broken  and  his  friends  knew  this  and  re 
spected  him  for  it.  Still,  Symes  could  not  help 
being  anxious.  He  held  sectional  supremacy  as 

[1381 


THE   CONTEST 

a  very  precious  thing  and  he  had  seen  this  much- 
lauded  hero  from  the  north  and  had  felt  in 
stinctively  that  Tom  Burrington  of  the  Seven-up 
was  the  only  man  of  theirs  who  would  not  be 
outclassed  by  this  tough,  wiry,  cool-eyed  candi 
date  for  new  honors.  So  it  behooved  him,  Symes, 
to  see  to  it  that  nothing  prevented  Tom's  enter 
ing  the  lists  that  afternoon.  It  was  to  be  the 
crowning  event  of  the  day.  Nothing  appeals  to 
the  cowboy  like  a  good  throw  and  a  good  tie. 
Other  things  would  be  interesting,  even  exciting, 
but  there  would  be  nothing  quite  equal  in  real 
sport  to  the  contest,  which  was  the  last  thing  on 
the  programme,  with  the  exception  of  the  Indian 
grass  dance,  played  in  full  regalia,  with  which 
event  any  sort  of  unusual  celebration  at  the 
Agency  always  closed,  a  concession  on  the  part 
of  the  Government  to  the  perpetuity  of  the 
memory  of  the  days  of  the  Dakotahs. 

Those  who  had  come  up  the  river  on  the  boat 
walked  to  the  Agency,  straggling  across  the 
prairie  by  twos  and  threes,  accepting  with  moreor 
less  good-nature  the  dust  of  the  riders  who  raced 
to  the  pleasure  grounds  in  a  childish  exuberance 
of  spirits  because  of  the  holiday,  and  perhaps, 
too,  with  an  unacknowledged  impulse  to  "show 

[139] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

off"  their  really  wonderful  prowess  before  this 
foolish  crowd  of  tenderfeet  from  town.  Tom 
walked  with  his  friends,  leading  his  horse,  ap 
parently  having  forgotten  all  about  his  uneasiness 
as  to  the  result  of  the  coming  trial.  Josephine 
was  so  frankly  pleased  with  everything  and 
was  so  palpably  enjoying  herself  and  appealed 
to  him  so  many  times  for  explanation  or  con 
firmation  that  he  had  no  will  to  mar  her  pleasure 
by  any  further  croaking  of  evil  to  come,  and  so 

«.  »/  c* 

gave  himself  up  to  a  quiet  enjoyment  of  her  high 
spirits  and  unbridled  curiosity  as  to  anything  and 
everything  that  concerned  the  life  of  these  wards 
of  the  Government. 

The  tepees  especially  interested  her.  They 
were  laid  out  in  a  semi-circle  on  a  wide  flat  about 
half  a  mile  from  the  Agency.  They  were  tem 
porary  homes,  most  of  them,  pitched  thus  con 
veniently  for  the  celebration,  their  canvas  wralls 
gleaming  spectrally  on  the  sunny  plain,  well  re 
moved  from  the  shade  of  the  river  trees.  The 
Lower  Brule  Indians  had  been  gathering  for 
days  from  even  the  utmost  confines  of  the  Reser 
vation  and  their  assembled  camp-fires  would 
gleam  redly  for  many  a  night  yet  to  come. 

"I  realize  perfectly  that  I  am  making  a  tre- 

[140] 


THE   CONTEST 

mendous  nuisance  of  myself,"  said  Josephine, 
with  a  longing  glance  across  the  white  dis 
tance  to  where  the  tents  sat  so  lazily  in  the 
glare  of  the  sun,  "but  how  I  should  love  to  go 
'a-vi  siting."' 

She  had  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  gauntletted 
hands,  her  felt  hat  was  pushed  far  back  on  her 
head  and  the  moisture  on  her  forehead  —  the 
May  day  was  as  warm  as  June  —  had  curled 
numerous  little  tendrils  of  shining  hair.  She  was 
so  altogether  lovable,  so  irresistibly  compelling, 
so  intensely  feminine  in  spite  of  her  rough  riding 
attire,  and  withal  so  quietly,  unquestioningly 
and  unpresumingly  ready  for  and  equal  to  the 
emergency  of  a  sojourn  in  this  rough-edged  re 
gion,  that  Tom  Burrington  swore  another  oath 
under  his  breath,  a  stronger  oath  than  the  em 
bryonic  one  that  he  had  sworn  on  the  day  the  ice 
went  out,  when  she  sat  warming  her  feet  at  his 
own  fireside,  an  oath  that  she  should  never  leave 
the  cattle  country  —  never  —  for  any  other 
home.  He  should  force  it  to  blossom  content^ 
ment  for  her.  He  hailed  a  passing  buckboard 
that  was  in  a  weird  state  of  dilapidation  and 
rattled  whiningly.  It  was  drawn  by  a  pair  of 
ragged  and  vicious-looking  Indian  ponies  and 

[141] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

they  were  driven  by  a  deeply  seamedv  gnarled, 
hawk-eyed  veteran  of  many  a  hunt  and  many  a 
warpath,  and  this  ancient  and  picturesque  red 
man  was  at  once  pressed  into  service.  While  the 
rest  of  the  party  made  ready  for  dinner,  he  drove 
Tom  and  Josephine  the  rounds  of  the  Summer 
village  where  Tom  was  well  known  to  many,  and 
on  the  most  friendly  terms  with  all. 

The  white  canvas  of  the  wall  tent  testified  to 
the  encroaching  influence  of  civilization,  but  the 
majority  of  the  tepees  were  erected  on  the  time- 
honored  plan  of  the  forefathers.  A  series  of  poles 
forming  a  circle  were  brought  together  at  the  top 
and  tied  with  strips  of  rawhide ;  around  these  the 
canvas  was  stretched,  leaving  an  aperture  at  the 
top  through  which  the  fumes  of  the  kinnikinnic 
and,  in  case  of  necessity,  the  smoke  of  the  wood 
fire  might  escape.  Encircling  these  crude  chim 
neys  and  extending  two  feet  above  were  the 
crossed  tops  of  the  tepee  poles.  Suspended  from 
each  of  these  poles,  like  pennants  from  a  staff, 
was  a  bright  ribbon-like  strip  of  beef  much 
resembling  a  strip  of  red  flannel.  The  action  of 
the  sun  and  pure  air  soon  dried  these  strips,  the 
smoke  of  the  indispensable  kinnikinnic  cured  and 
flavored  them,  and  the  result  was,  to  the  red  man, 

[142] 


THE   CONTEST 

a  very  delectable  food  product  known  as  jerked 
beef.  In  the  centre  of  the  semicircle  was  a  tent 
made  of  the  tanned  skins  of  the  buffalo  and  elk 
stretched  over  smoke-stained  poles  with  the  moth- 
damaged  hair  side  on  the  interior.  The  outside 
of  the  skins,  the  tanned  side,  was  profusely 
decorated  with  Indian  drawings  in  blue,  red,  and 
yellow  pigments,  conveying  to  the  initiated  a 
complete  history  of  the  tribe  and  the  occupant. 
This  was  the  tepee  of  Standing  Cloud,  the  last 
of  the  hereditary  chiefs  of  the  Brule  Sioux. 

Tom  and  Josephine  visited  and  chatted  and 
gave  pennies  to  the  bright-eyed  but  speechless 
little  children,  and  bought  moccasins,  beaded  and 
tribe-marked,  right  from  the  feet  of  a  laughing, 
bashful,  young  squaw.  It  was  a  very  pleasant 
hour  for  them  both  and  made  for  good  comrade 
ship. 

It  was  not  until  after  dinner,  when  Tom  was 
finding  the  best  places  for  his  party  on  a  grassy 
plot  to  the  west  of  the  ball  grounds,  that  he 
thought  at  all  of  the  contest  in  which  he  himself 
was  to  be  so  important  a  factor.  It  would  be  a 
grave  misfortune  to  lose  the  game  for  his  people ; 
not  so  much  for  himself,  his  personal  pride  could 
easily  stand  the  shock  of  defeat,  but  he  could  not 

[143] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

bear  to  think  that  his  friends  should  lose  pres 
tige,  and  through  him ;  and  those  northern  ranch 
men  were  already  arrogant  enough.  Not  so 
much  for  himself  —  that  was  true  —  and  yet  he 
knew  that  it  would  be  one  of  the  bitterest  mo 
ments  of  his  life  if,  when  the  sun  was  low,  he  must 
needs  come  back  to  —  her,  across  the  level  stretch 
of  country,  figuratively  trailing  his  colors  in  the 
dust.  If  only  he  were  in  training!  If  only,  as 
long  as  he  must,  he  had  planned  to  do  this  thing. 
The  field  which  had  been  chosen  for  the  games 
was  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  Agency 
buildings  and  a  little  to  the  west.  Josephine 
scorned  an  umbrella,  but  Mrs.  Burrington  raised 
hers  with  a  placid  smile  of  acceptance  of  her  ina 
bility  to  love  the  unguarded  sun  of  the  prairie, 
and  prepared  to  take  a  sort  of  resigned  interest 
in  the  proceedings.  People  had  begun  drifting 
thither  long  before  the  hour  set.  They  were  a 
strange  assemblage  —  cow-punchers,  ranchmen, 
people  of  the  town,  a  smattering  of  government 
officials,  and  a  host  of  Lower  Brule  and  Crow 
Creek  Indians.  There  was  much  talking  and  eat 
ing  of  peanuts,  much  betting  and  much  smoking 
of  cigarettes,  in  the  midst  of  which  the  pro 
gramme  of  events  was  opened. 

[144] 


THE   CONTEST 

There  was  a  ball  game  first  between  a  bunch  of 
town  boys  and  a  stalwart  nine  composed  entirely 
of  young  Brule  bucks  —  lost  to  the  town,  for 
which  Josephine  leaned  over  and  hugged  Rose 
bud  ecstatically,  while  Rosebud  said  nothing 
though  her  eyes  shone  with  pleasure  and  pride. 
Horse  races  and  foot  races  followed  each  other 
in  rapid  succession.  There  was  a  round  of  bronco 
busting  in  which  Bear  Heart  acquitted  himself 
with  much  glory,  outclassing  his  worthiest  rival 
on  a  foul  of  "grabbing  leather,"  and  then  while 
the  enthusiasm  for  the  good  showing  made  by 
the  Indian  from  the  southern  Reservation  was  at 
its  highest  pitch,  Tom  Burrington  arose  from  his 
place  beside  his  friends  on  the  grassy  plot  and 
slipped  quietly  away  in  search  of  his  horse. 

It  was  very  warm.  The  sky  of  the  late  and 
cloudless  afternoon  was  very  blue.  The  wind  of 
the  plains  was  holding  its  breath  so  that  it  was 
very  still  everywhere  except  in  that  one  tiny  spot 
set  down  in  the  midst  of  illimitable,  solemn,  and 
shimmering  space  where  a  handful  of  human 
beings  yelled  lustily  and  gyrated  foolishly  and 
otherwise  disported  themselves  as  if  they  were  of 
much,  much  consequence.  They  were  people  of 
the  plains,  accustomed  only  to  God's  heavens  and 

[145] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

the  limitless  stretch  of  scenery  to  bound  their 
enthusiasm,  so  that  their  isolation  was  not 
strikingly  palpable  to  them,  and  yet  they  were 
men,  so  that  their  play  was  the  less  incongruous 
to  them. 

There  were  seven  entries  for  the  roping  con 
test,  and  the  rough  badinage  that  was  without 
malice  amongst  the  contestants  and  their  friends, 
kept  the  crowd  in  a  tumult  of  good  humor. 

Bill  Dulan,  a  tall,  muscular,  middle-aged 
athlete,  foreman  and  joint  proprietor  of  the 
I  bar  U  ranch  located  near  the  border  line,  an 
adept  with  the  rope  and  a  sure  shot  with  rifle  or 
"six-gun,"  was  chosen  as  referee.  Climbing 
upon  the  arch  above  the  smaller  gate  of  the  cor 
ral,  he  proceeded  to  announce  the  rules  of  the 
contest.  With  a  bow  directed  toward  the  group 
of  ladies,  he  described  a  wide  semi-circle  with  his 
broad-brimmed  light  hat  with  a  fair  leather  strap 
for  a  band,  and  began: 

"Ladies,  cow-punchers,  feller  citizens,  and  In 
juns,  this  here  's  goin'  to  be  a  contest  and  you  can 
bet  your  life  it 's  goin'  to  be  fair.  The  I  bar  U 
outfit  never  plays  a  favorite;  you  can  put  your 
money  on  your  favorite  puncher  and  you  '11  sure 
collect  if  he  's  the  swiftest  with  his  string.  Bud 

[146] 


THE  CONTEST 

McGonnigal  of  Texas  is  holdin'  the  world's 
record  at  thirty-seven  seconds  and  the  rules  here 
will  be  Bud's  rules,  'Steer  down  and  hog-tied, 
three  feet  tied  together.'  No  dead  steers  count, 
so  look  out  for  the  broken  necks  or  you  will  have 
to  try  again.  Your  throw  rope  and  two  six-foot 
ropes  in  the  belt  must  do  the  business.  Now 
some  of  you  galoots  splice  your  ropes  together 
and  run  a  half  ring  from  the  fence  at  the  right  to 
the  fence  to  the  left  of  this  gate  and  the  puncher 
sets  his  saddle  by  the  gate  and  moves  narry  a  peg 
until  the  steer  crosses  the  line." 

Five  of  the  contestants  had  cheerfully  per 
formed  their  part  of  the  game,  all  having  hog- 
tied  their  steers  in  artistic  fashion,  but  none  of 
them  having  gotten  below  the  minute  record. 
One  neck  was  broken  and  the  Indians  had 
dragged  off  the  carcass  for  beef. 

When  the  man  from  the  north  country  rode 
up  to  the  gate  of  the  enclosure  where  the  untamed 
monarchs  of  the  range  were  milling  restlessly,  a 
great  cheer  ascended  into  the  vaulted  blue  and 
went  sounding  over  the  prairie.  His  reputation 
had  preceded  him  and  some  of  his  admirers  even 
expected  him  to  break  the  record  of  Bud  McGon 
nigal.  With  his  advent  upon  the  field  began  the 

[147] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

real  interest  of  the  day.  He  was  a  well-built 
young  fellow,  not  so  large  as  Tom,  but  tough, 
wiry,  supple,  entirely  at  home  in  the  saddle.  He 
was  apparently  oblivious  to  the  furor  into  which 
his  appearance  had  thrown  the  crowd.  He 
shifted  his  quid  of  tobacco  carelessly  and  bided 
his  time  with  the  utmost  unconcern,  one  leg 
thrown  over  the  saddle  horn,  one  hand  toying 
with  the  reached  mane  of  his  cow  horse.  He  was 
not  an  individual  owner,  but  was  foreman  of  a 
big  syndicate  ranch  in  the  middle  north.  Sitting 
there  so  carelessly,  he  was  the  picture  of  self- 
confidence,  sure  of  his  ability  to  throw  a  rope, 
range-bred  and  consequently  haughty  in  manner ; 
but  he  lacked  Tom's  general  popularity,  on 
account,  in  part,  of  his  connection  with  outside 
capital.  Still,  numerous  friends  from  the  Pierre 
country  had  followed  him  here — a  boisterous,  con 
fident,  clamorous  bunch  of  rooters,  who  vocif 
erously  rallied  to  his  support  and  promptly 
covered  every  dollar  put  up  by  the  southern  men, 
who  were  equally  confident  of  their  champion's 
ability  to  humble  the  pride  of  this  arrogant  north 
erner.  The  betting  ran  high  and  incessant.  The 
honor  of  the  range  forbade  that  this  stranger  out 
of  the  north,  reputed  to  be  so  wonderfully  expert, 

[148] 


THE   CONTEST 

rumored  to  have  made  Montana's  record,  should 
set  the  time  for  the  Dakota  ranges. 

Conspicuous  among  the  Pierre  contingent  was 
Frank  LaDue,  loud-mouthed,  swaggering,  and 
betting  heavily  against  the  man  from  Iris  own 
country. 

"Loyal  to  his  home  range  and  a  man  of  high 
notions  of  honor,"  said  Jack,  in  an  ironical  un 
dertone. 

"Well,  of  course,"  Josephine  excused  him,  con 
scientiously,  though  reluctantly,  "he  is  not  a  real 
cattleman,  you  know.  He  is  only  a  —  chopper 
of  wood.  So  I  suppose  that  he  ought  not  to  be 
held  culpable  for  arraying  himself  on  the  side  of 
his  own  personal  inclinations." 

"He  is  Tom's  neighbor,  just  the  same,"  re 
torted  Jack,  finding  no  shadow  of  a  justification 
of  the  man's  unusual  conduct,  "and  he  derives 
his  livelihood  from  the  southern  ranges.  He  has 
belittled  an  affair  of  honor  among  peoples  to  the 
level  of  a  vulgar  personal  spite  of  no  moment. 
He  might  at  least  have  had  the  decency  to  stay 
at  home." 

"I  don't  care,  I  am  glad  he  is  betting  so 
steep,"  broke  in  Louis,  vengefully.  "Old  skee- 
zicks !  When  he  loses  everything  he  's  got  and  is 

[149] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

nothing  but  a  beggarly  old  bankrupt,  he  need  n't 
think  he  can  come  whining  around  Tom  for  a  job. 
No,  siree  !  Why,  Tom  would  n't  any  more  dream 
of  letting  him  punch  one  of  his  cows  than  he  'd 
dream  of  flying  over  the  moon,  and  if  he  did  I  'd 
punch  his  head  for  it.  Gee!" 

The  corral  gate  at  the  right  of  the  champion  of 
the  north  country  swung  back  and  instantly 
every  eye  was  bent  upon  the  opening.  Out 
trotted  a  steer  with  his  horns  low  to  the  ground 
and,  catching  sight  of  the  crowd,  essayed  to  turn 
and  rejoin  his  fellows;  but  the  gate  swung  shut, 
a  cowboy  yell  wrent  up  from  the  crowd,  and  the 
magnificent  animal,  throwing  his  muzzle  high  in 
the  air,  started  with  the  swiftness  of  a  stag  for  the 
open  prairie  beyond.  As  he  crossed  the  twenty- 
yard  line,  the  feet  of  the  waiting  horseman 
dropped  into  the  stirrups  with  a  click,  his  right 
hand  sank  to  the  throw  rope  upon  his  saddle,  his 
left  grasped  the  reins  and  the  rowels  sank  into 
the  flanks  of  the  cow  horse.  Half  a  dozen  swift 
leaps  and  the  rope  went  singing  through  the  air, 
the  loop  settling  over  the  head  of  the  terrified 
steer.  The  horse  swerved  suddenly  to  the  right, 
fetching  the  slack  of  the  rope  down  over  the  left 
side  and  thigh  of  the  steer,  then,  as  suddenly 

[150] 


THE   CONTEST 

facing  the  animal,  he  braced  his  feet  for  the  in 
evitable  shock,  as  the  rider  took  a  half  hitch  in 
the  rope  around  the  saddle  horn,  leaping  to  the 
ground  as  the  steer  landed  fairly  on  his  back. 
The  horse  began  backing  away  to  keep  the  rope 
tight  as  the  cowboy  sprang  toward  the  prostrate 
animal,  fashioning  a  loop  in  one  of  his  short  ropes 
as  he  ran.  Dropping  this  over  the  right  hind 
foot  as  it  came  forward  in  a  kick,  he  swiftly  took 
a  half  hitch  around  the  right  fore  foot  as  the  two 
met ;  tying  the  loose  end  of  the  rope  around  the 
other  fore  foot,  he  raised  both  hands  aloft  and 
the  steer  lay  "hog-tied,"  unable  to  arise.  The 
stentorian  voice  of  Bill  Dulan  announced  the 
time,  "Thirty-nine  seconds,"  and  the  crowd  broke 
into  wild  cheering,  friend  and  foe  alike  giving 
credit  to  the  fine  horsemanship  and  the  excellent 
work  of  the  stranger.  There  was  nothing  narrow 
about  these  men ;  they  gave  praise  ungrudgingly 
where  praise  was  due. 

When  Tom  Burrington  rode  up  to  the  gate,  a 
sudden  hush  fell  upon  the  people  while  they 
measured  him  by  those  thirty-nine  seconds. 
"Can  he  do  it?"  was  the  query  of  north  and  south 
alike  as  they  gazed  upon  the  perfect  physique 
and  careless  smile  of  the  champion  of  the  southern 

[151] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

slope.  Then  cheer  upon  cheer  went  up  from  ad 
miring  throats  as  the  ranchmen  did  homage  to 
their  hero  who  was  to  uphold  the  honor  of  the 
southern  range.  He  rode  easily,  smilingly,  to  his 
station.  If  he  was  disturbed  by  a  doubt  as  to 
his  ability  to  lower  the  excellent  record  set,  no 
one  was  the  wiser  by  look  or  sign  from  him.  He 
was  perfectly  self-contained  as  he  turned  his  gaze 
toward  that  portion  of  the  ground  where  his  par 
ticular  friends  had  been  seated  in  close  proximity 
to  an  umbrella.  There  was  no  umbrella  visible 
now.  It  lay  trampled  in  the  dust  under  foot, 
while  the  low,  reddening  sun  of  the  closing  day 
beat  unheeded  upon  the  gray  head  of  a  handsome, 
stately  woman  of  the  city,  who  had  arisen  with 
the  rush  of  intense  feeling  called  forth  by  the 
appearance  there  at  the  gate  of  her  big,  self- 
reliant,  smiling,  splendid  son.  Beside  her  stood 
Josephine,  her  eyes  bright  as  stars,  the  color 
burning  in  her  cheeks,  her  lips  parted.  To  these 
two,  Tom  doffed  his  plainsman's  hat  and  then 
laughed  aloud  to  see  his  small  but  wildly  enthu 
siastic  brother  dragged  back  by  the  hand  of 
Carroll  as  he  would  have  rushed  to  him  in  his 
boyish  excitement. 

During  the  short  interval  between  his  arrival 

[152] 


THE  CONTEST 

and  the  opening  of  the  gate,  the  betting  was  re 
newed,  eager  voices  calling  their  challenges  and 
others  equally  loyal  promptly  accepting  them. 
Suddenly,  startlingly  distinct,  came  the  aston 
ishing  proposition : 

"I  've  got  another  hundred  here,  boys!  Two 
to  one  on  Pierre!" 

The  speaker  was  Frank  LaDue  —  a  close 
neighbor,  as  neighbors  were  in  that  day,  of  the 
Seven-up  ranch.  An  attempt  to  repeat  the  chal 
lenge  was  literally  drowned  in  the  chorus  of  voices 
anxious  to  cover  his  extraordinary  bet. 

The  smile  left  Tom's  lips  and  his  eyes  nar 
rowed  in  the  old  dangerous  way.  He  was  dressed 
simply  as  the  cowboy  dresses  when  on  duty,  with 
out  the  showy  embellishments  of  an  earlier  day 
or  the  affectation  of  a  later.  His  dark  blue  flan 
nel  shirt  fitted  easily  over  his  broad  shoulders 
and  was  left  open  at  the  throat.  The  inevitable 
gauntletted  gloves,  to  protect  his  hands  from  the 
scorching  of  a  possible  running  rope,  were  with 
out  ornament  or  fringe.  At  his  belt  on  either 
side  hung  the  short  tie-rope  peculiar  to  the  con 
test.  His  trousers  were  tucked  into  his  riding 
boots,  that  had  the  high  cowboy  heels  to  prevent 
the  foot  slipping  too  far  into  the  stirrup.  About 

[153] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

his  throat  was  a  gay,  loosely  knotted,  carefully 
adjusted  handkerchief. 

The  gate  swung  back  once  more  and  a  shaggy, 
black  three-year-old  steer  came  through  it  with  a 
bellow  and  made  a  break  for  freedom.  Scarcely 
had  its  hoofs  touched  the  distance  line  when 
Tom's  horse  was  after  it  with  the  sagacity  of  a 
trained  cow  horse,  while  the  crowd  went  deathly 
still.  Tom's  muscular  right  arm  circled  above  his 
head,  shot  forward,  and  the  noose  settled  over  the 
head  of  the  steer  with  a  full  third  of  the  rope's 
length  to  spare.  He  had  never  made  a  better 
throw  in  his  life  and  he  knew  it  and  exulted  in 
victory  in  sight.  The  half  hitch  around  the  saddle 
horn  had  been  taken  and  the  tie-rope  was  in  his 
hand  as  the  horse  braced  himself  for  the  shock. 
When  it  came,  the  horse  went  over  backward 
while  saddle  and  rider  shot  through  the  air  as  if 
projected  from  a  catapult. 

"  For  God's  sake,  keep  the  people  back ! "  cried 
Jack,  who  was  the  first  to  reach  the  motionless, 
white-faced  form  that  lay  stretched  upon  the 
grass.  "Symes,  Bear  Heart!  Keep  them  back, 
I  say !  We  must  have  air ! " 

It  was  the  mother  who  took  the  quiet  head 
upon  her  lap,  sitting  there  upon  the  trampled 

[154] 


Saddle  and  rider  shot  through  the  air 


THE   CONTEST 

earth,  but  Josephine  had  taken  one  of  the  inert 
hands  and  was  chafing  it,  softly,  blindly,  while 
Louis  gave  vent  to  his  grief  in  wild  sobs.  But 
Tom  was  only  stunned  and  no  bones  were  broken 
and  when  water  was  brought  and  his  face  laved 
in  it,  he  opened  his  eyes  and  gazed  about  in 
a  bewildered  manner,  and  then,  remembering, 
smiled. 

"Well,  I  lost  out.  I  did  the  best  I  could.  Tell 
the  boys  I  'm  sorry.  What  happened?  How 
came  I  here?" 

"It  wasn't  fair,"  sobbed  Josephine. 

Tom  raised  his  eyes  caressingly  to  her  face. 

"I  don't  seem  to  remember  just  what  hap 
pened,"  he  said,  "but  it  must  have  been  fair." 

When  it  was  ascertained  beyond  doubt  that 
Tom  was  not  killed,  not  even  seriously  injured, 
congratulations  for  the  unannounced  winner 
began,  and  the  crowd,  somewhat  subdued,  com 
menced  to  disperse.  Most  of  the  Indians  had  al 
ready  stolen  away  to  make  preparations  for  their 
grass  dance  and  were  even  now  assembling  in  the 
unfloored,  corral-like  bowery  that  had  the  heav 
ens  for  its  canopy,  the  leafy  branches  for  its  walls, 
and  the  grass  of  the  prairie  for  its  carpet. 

"Look!  Look!"  cried  Louis,  and  coming  to- 

[155] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

ward  the  group  kneeling  about  the  fallen  cham 
pion,  was  Bear  Heart  carrying  over  his  arm  the 
saddle  that  had  so  treacherously  given  way  at 
the  crucial  moment.  Tom  had  scarcely  struck 
the  ground  when  a  dozen  riders  were  after  the 
maddened  steer  as  he  dashed  away  and  the  rope 
and  saddle  were  recovered  promptly. 

"  Ugh !  Waniche ! "  grunted  Bear  Heart,  inad 
vertently  lapsing  into  the  laconic  brevity  of  the 
Sioux,  as  he  pointed  to  the  cleanly  broken  girth- 
strap  dangling  from  the  saddle,  his  face  sternly 
fixed  and  his  eyes  keenly  ablaze  with  the  light  of 
discovery. 

Tom  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  suddenness  that 
set  his  head  to  spinning  and  almost  unbalanced 
his  mother  and  Josephine,  who  were  kneeling  one 
on  either  side  of  him. 

"Let  me  see  it,"  he  commanded,  peremptorily. 

"Bear  Heart  is  right,"  said  Jack,  slowly  pass 
ing  the  saddle  up  for  Tom's  inspection. 

The  break  had  occurred  under  the  saddle  skirt 
where  the  ladigo  strap  passes  through  the  cinch 
ring  —  a  leather-covered  ring,  hidden  from  view 
by  the  saddle  skirt.  It  was  a  clean  break  —  too 
clean  —  and  the  Indian  redeeming  his  promise  to 
the  boy  to  watch,  had  discovered  it,  and  his  eye, 

[156] 


THE  CONTEST 

trained  by  practice  to  note  the  slightest  sign,  had 
detected  in  the  break  foul  play. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  asked  Josephine, 
breathlessly  watching  the  stern  faces  of  the  men. 

"It  means,"  said  Tom,  painfully  straightening 
himself  and  placing  a  steadying  hand  upon  Jack's 
shoulder,  "it  means  that  some  one  cut  that  strap 
with  a  sharp  knife,  just  enough  so  that  the  strain 
of  cinching  the  saddle  would  not  break  it,  in  all 
probability,  but  the  sudden  strain  of  the  falling 
steer  would  surely  snap  it,  as  it  did.  It  means, 
too,  that  my  fall  was  a  foul  and  that  I  have 
another  trial  coming  in  this  contest  —  if  I  may 
have  your  saddle,  Symes." 

"No,  no,  Tom!"  cried  Josephine,  a  note  of 
pain,  too  sharp  and  sudden  to  be  disguised,  ring 
ing  in  her  voice.  His  only  answer  was  a  swift 
look  and  a  reassuring  smile. 

"You  shall  not  do  it,"  declared  the  elder 
woman,  vehemently,  "Isn't  one  killing  enough? 
You  are  as  weak  as  a  babe  and  it  would  simply 
be  suicide,  and  I  forbid  it!" 

:<  You  —  are  too  much  shaken  up  to  try  again," 
pleaded  Josephine. 

"And  you  would  only  lose,"  argued  Mrs.  Bur- 
rington,  desperately,  realizing  even  as  she  spoke 

[157] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

that  she  was  wasting  words  in  attempting  to 
change  the  stubborn  mind  of  her  unswerving  son 
who  had  determined  his  course  and  would  follow 
it  even  if  the  heavens  should  fall. 

"It  wrould  have  taken  all  your  strength  be 
fore.  What  can  you  do  now  that  your  strength  is 
gone?"  she  continued,  rebelling  hotly,  but,  she 
felt,  in  vain,  against  the  clearly  formed  but  yet 
unspoken  decision  of  her  son. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  pretty  weak  yet,  Tom," 
advised  Jack,  doubtfully,  "I  think  that  you  had 
better  call  it  off  for  this  time,  don't  you?  We 
can  get  even  later  on  when  you  are  yourself 
again." 

"Will  you  get  your  saddle,  Symes?"  was  the 
grim  answer,  and  Symes  turned  gladly  toward 
his  horse. 

"What  's  all  this  fool  talk  about  a  new  trial?" 
demanded  LaDue,  touching  the  arm  of  the  ref 
eree. 

"Burrington  gets  a  new  trial.  Some  one 
fouled  his  traps,"  ruled  the  referee,  curtly. 

"The  hell  you  say!  A  man  fool  enough  to  go 
into  a  thing  like  this  with  a  faulty  saddle  de 
serves  what  he  gets.  Why,  the  saddle  's  part  o' 
the  game.  It  is  n't  professional  to  be  careless 

[158] 


THE   CONTEST 

with  a  thing  like  that.  You  know  that  mighty 
well,  Bill,"  continued  the  bully. 

"It  is  my  decision  that  the  saddle  was  tam 
pered  with  to  throw  this  contest.  Do  you  catch 
that?"  responded  Bill  Dulan,  as  he  turned  and 
looked  LaDue  squarely  in  the  eye.  "Tom  Bur- 
rington's  saddle  is  the  apple  of  his  eye  and  1 11 
bet  the  best  string  of  ponies  I  Ve  got  that  it  was 
in  perfect  condition  the  last  time  he  looked  at  it, 
and  I  don't  think  that  was  very  long  ago,  either, 
and  he  gets  another  chance." 

"What  right  have  you  to  change  the  rules,  or 
make  new  ones?"  snarled  LaDue,  angrily. 

"  I  'm  the  referee  and  he  gets  another  chance. 
Do  you  hear  that  ?"  shouted  stout-hearted  Bill,  as 
he  turned  his  back  on  the  grumbler. 

"I've  looked  at  that  harness  and  the  gentle 
man  is  sure  entitled  to  a  fair  chance,  for  he  did  n't 
have  it  before."  All  heads  were  turned  to  look  at 
the  new  speaker  and  a  cheer  went  up  as  they  saw 
that  it  was  the  Pierre  champion  who  spoke. 
They  loved  fair  play,  these  plainsmen. 

The  scattering  crowd  had  rushed  back  to  the 
corrals  when  it  became  known  that  Tom  Bur- 
rington  was  to  have  another  trial.  His  pluck 
and  the  general  belief  that  he  had  been  the  victim 

[159] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

of  foul  play  had  made  him  more  than  ever  a 
favorite. 

Again  it  was  a  black  steer  that  was  released  — 
a  hornless  galloway,  as  wild  as  a  native  buffalo 
and  as  fleet  as  an  ordinary  horse.  But  Tom's 
mount  was  a  racer.  As  the  black  mass  crossed 
the  line,  the  horse  made  a  mighty  spring  that  had 
often  won  for  him  as  a  quarter  horse,  and  in  a 
moment  had  closed  up  the  intervening  gap  and 
was  pressing  close  to  the  steer's  side;  yet  Tom's 
arm  hung  by  his  side  with  the  hondeau  of  the  loop 
resting  on  his  thumb.  The  vast  crowd  stood  mo 
tionless,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe,  as  the  people 
realized  that  the  champion  of  the  south,  fearing 
probably  for  his  strength,  contemplated  the  most 
difficult  of  all  throws,  a  foot  catch.  It  was  not 
only  the  most  difficult,  but  also  the  most  uncertain 
catch  even  for  an  expert  such  as  he  was. 

Suddenly  the  arm  raised,  the  rope  shot  out, 
the  loop  missing  the  steer's  head  by  several  feet, 
and  a  groan  went  up  from  the  women  and  tender- 
feet  ;  but  the  cowmen  held  their  breath  in  admira 
tion  as  Tom's  stout  lungs  let  out  a  yell  that 
caused  the  steer  to  dodge  suddenly  to  the  right 
and  the  trick  was  accomplished.  His  shoulders 
striking  the  rope  just  above  the  loose-sliding 

[160] 


THE   CONTEST 

hondeau,  caused  the  loop  to  swing  toward  him, 
and  with  the  next  lunge,  both  his  front  feet  went 
into  it.  Like  a  flash  the  horse  turned  to  the  left, 
answering  the  pressure  of  Tom's  knee,  for  he 
had  dropped  the  reins  and  already  held  the  short 
tie-rope  in  his  hand. 

The  rope  tightened,  with  a  snap  like  a  pistol 
shot,  as  the  horse  wheeled  and  braced  his  feet. 
But  the  saddle  held,  and  the  galloway,  turning  a 
complete  somersault,  lay  struggling  with  his 
front  feet  effectually  tied  and  one  of  his  hind 
legs  over  the  rope  below  the  hock  joint.  With  a 
skill  that  comes  only  with  a  cool  head  and  long 
training,  Tom  deftly  dropped  the  short  rope 
over  the  free  hind  leg  and,  with  the  rapidity  al 
most  of  thought,  put  a  half  hitch  over  the  other 
and  a  final  tie  over  the  two  front  feet  together, 
and  the  steer  lay  helpless  with  his  four  feet  tied 
together. 

Tom's  hands  went  into  the  air  and  the  tensely 
quiet  crowd  broke  loose  in  a  series  of  such  wild 
cheers  as  the  little  bend  had  never  before  heard 
as  the  referee  announced  the  result,  "Thirty- 
seven  seconds."  The  world's  record  had  been 
tied  and  the  honor  of  the  southern  range  had 
been  upheld. 

[161] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

"  By  Jove!    Thirty-seven  seconds  with  a  man 

whose  wind  had  been  completely  knocked  out  of 

him  not  half  an  hour  before  is  going  some,"  said 

Jack,  as  they  walked  back  to  the  Agency  through 

,  the  fast-fading  light. 

There  was  a  clatter  of  hoofs,  clouds  of  dust, 
and  a  bedlam-like  yelling,  as  an  enthusiastic 
crowd  of  cowboys  swept  past  them,  each  shout 
ing  some  expression  of  praise  for  his  hero.  He 
was  a  very  human  hero  and  coughed  disgustedly 
at  the  choking  smudge  of  dust  that  enveloped 
them. 

"Bully!"  shouted  Symes.  "Bully!"  he  roared 
again,  ecstatically,  as  he  raced  past  at  the  end 
of  the  cavalcade.  "I  Ve  got  some  two-to-ones  to 
settle  with  Frank  LaDue!  Bully!"  And 
"Bully!"  yelled  Louis  from  his  seat  on  the  sad 
dle  in  front  of  Symes,  where  he  was  doing  his 
full  share  of  celebrating. 

"  I  am  mighty  glad  that  I  won  for  the  boys," 
said  Tom,  simply,  and  then  he  turned  toward 
Josephine.  "It  is  a  good  country,"  he  added. 


[162] 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  BIG  GULCH 

/^  IRT  with  the  spoils  of  war,  an  abandonment 
of  lightsome  spirits,  loose  tongues,  and 
hoarse  voices,  the  victorious  delegation  from  the 
south  swarmed  noisily  on  board  the  Susie  with 
the  first  coming  of  dusk,  and  the  stanch  little 
boat,  with  the  telling  help  of  the  swift  current, 
chugged  and  quivered  its  rapid  way  down  the 
darkening  river.  Their  friends  from  the  Seven- 
up  remained  in  town  for  the  night,  but  Jack  and 
Josephine  rode  home  through  the  still  late  hours, 
for  at  the  Broken  Key  there  had  been  no  one 
left  behind  to  tend  the  stock  which  had  been 
turned  loose  to  feed  at  will.  With  them  rode  the 
Indians,  Rosebud  and  Bear  Heart. 

In  the  early  morning  of  the  next  day,  Jack 
and  Josephine  together  drove  the  cattle  north 
ward  and  across  the  big  gulch,  where  a  well  de 
fined  cattle  trail  led  to  the  grass  lands  beyond. 
At  noon  of  the  same  day,  Jack  came  into  the 
living  room  of  the  Broken  Key  with  stern  eyes 

[163] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

and  a  determined  set  to  the  jaws  that  were  so 
rapidly  losing  their  boyish  curves.  He  ate  his 
mid-day  dinner  silently.  Josephine,  too,  said 
little.  At  one  o'clock  he  put  a  lump  of  sugar  in 
his  pocket,  left  the  room,  went  to  the  stable,  took 
down  his  saddle  and  bridle,  flung  them  across 
his  shoulders,  and  returned  to  Josephine. 

"Jack!"  she  cried,  in  appealing  remonstrance, 
"You  are  not  going  to  cross  the  river  with  — 
him?" 

"Why  not?"  asked  Jack,  with  a  half  return 
of  his  old  gay  smile.  "It  is  quite  in  keeping,  ac 
cording  to  my  notion,  for  him  to  furnish  me 
transportation  in  order  that  I  may  lodge  my 
complaint  against  him  with  the  proper  authori 
ties.  He  has  given  me  just  cause  for  complaint. 
Surely,  then,  he  owes  me  the  means  of  prosecu 
ting  the  same.  Is  not  that  a  logical  and  reasona 
ble  supposition,  sister  mine?  You  would  not 
want  our  neighbor  to  mutilate  his  free  gift  by  not 
allowing  him  to  put  on  the  finishing  touches, 
would  you?  It  is  a  rare  talent,  Jo,  that  has  the 
grace  to  accept  generously.  We  will  cultivate 
it,  you  and  I." 

"You  would  make  fun  if  you  were  going  to 
die  this  minute,"  said  Josephine.  "But  I  am 

[164] 


THE    BIG    GULCH 

afraid,  Jack.  It  seems  just  like  —  oh,  I  do  not 
know  what  it  seems  like,  but  it  seems  awful. 
Why  don't  you  go  around  by  Kemah?  Cannot 
you  ford  White  River  somewhere?" 

" Oh,  yes,  but  it  is  much  farther.  1 11  just  take 
my  rifle  —  if  you  will  hand  it  to  me  —  that 's  a 
good  girl.  It  is  the  only  gun  I  know  anything 
about  and  so  what 's  the  use  of  hampering  my 
self  with  those  foolish  little  forty-fivers  the  gen 
tlemen  of  the  northern  ranges  affect  so  lovingly? 
If  I  had  occasion  to  shoot  at  a  rattler  like  enough 
I  should  blaze  away  with  the  butt  end  levelled  at 
him.  Who  would  care  for  Josie  then?  But, 
Josephine,"  he  continued,  more  soberly,  "you 
need  not  be  in  the  least  afraid.  Henry  Hoffman 
is  going  to  row  me  across  in  the  skiff  and  in  all 
probability  I  shall  not  see  LaDue  at  all.  I  shall 
take  a  horse  from  the  other  side.  Hence  this 
loaf  of  sugar." 

"Let  the  old  cow  go,"  whispered  Josephine, 
slipping  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  this  young 
pioneer  brother  of  hers,  whose  high  hopes  and 
lofty  ambitions  would  make  him  a  cattleman  of 
the  great  northern  ranges  by  and  by  —  if  it  was 
to  be.  He  seemed  to  her  very  young  in  that  mo 
ment  and  she  had  a  choking,  blind  longing  to 

[165] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

"mother"  him  as  if  he  were  a  child  and  to  keep 
the  creeping  shadows  of  an  unknown  trouble 
away  from  him  if  she  could.  She  was  two  years 
younger  than  Jack  and  yet  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  was  much,  much  older.  "I  am  afraid,  Jack. 
Don't  let  us  quarrel  with  our  neighbor.  What 
is  the  use?  Where  will  it  all  end?  Let  us  go 
back  —  home,  Jack,  shall  we?" 

"Why,  Josephine,  if  you  are  really  afraid  to 
stay  alone,  I  won't  go  to-day.  I  will  wait  until 
the  next  time  Rosebud  comes  along  so  that  she 
can  stay  with  you.  I  wish  she  were  here  now  or 
I  wish  that  we  might  both  go.  Suppose  we  do. 
Get  on  your  bonnet  and  we  will  both  go.  Every 
thing  went  well  yesterday  during  our  absence, 
why  should  it  not  again?" 

"No,"  said  Josephine,  resolutely,  "the  cattle 
are  feeding  in  strange  places  and  they  must 
come  home  to-night.  Besides,"  she  added,  in 
dignantly,  "why  should  I  be  afraid  for  my 
self?"  He  had  meant  to  make  her  indignant,  so 
he  smiled  at  her  with  caressing  amusement. 
"You  know  that  I  am  not  afraid  for  myself. 
It  is  you,  Jack.  Why  do  they  hate  you  so?" 

"I  wish  I  knew,"  said  Jack,  wistfully.  "I  al 
ways  thought  I  was  a  pretty  good  sort  of  a  fel- 

[166] 


THE    BIG    GULCH 

low,  myself.  That  is  where  you  erred  —  you 
people  of  my  '  ain  countrie.'  You  tried  to  make 
me  think  so  —  you  know  you  did  —  and  now  I 
have  to  suffer  for  the  mistake  that  was  not 
originally  mine.  For  an  eradicator  of  self- 
conceit,  commend  me  to  the  West,  Josephine." 

"Jack,  why  don't  you  ask  Tom  Burrington?" 
said  Josephine,  suddenly. 

A  shadow  came  into  Jack's  eyes  and  lingered 
there  while  he  gazed  for  a  long  moment  over 
Josephine's  bright  head,  beyond  the  great  yellow 
river  with  the  arrogant  push  of  its  channel,  be 
yond  the  hills  with  their  whispering  grasses,  aye, 
beyond  the  lonely  ranges  themselves  —  away — 
far  away — to  the  South. 

"I  am  afraid,  Josephine,"  he  said  at  last,  so 
berly,  "I  am  afraid  that  Tom  knows."  Then  he 
was  gone  and  Josephine  crept  back  into  the  still 
house  to  wait  for  the  long  afternoon  to  pass  so 
that  Jack  could  come  home  again. 

It  was  a  long  afternoon  and  the  house  seemed 
far  lonelier  to-day  than  any  other  day  when  Jack 
had  been  gone.  It  was  a  listless  day,  too,  so  that 
there  was  no  work  that  she  seemed  to  want  to  do. 
Presently  she  left  the  little  low  room  with  its 
ghostly  corners  and  insistent  silence  and  sat  on 

[167] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

the  door  step  with  a  bit  of  sewing  in  her  hands. 
Here,  although  she  could  not  see  it,  it  seemed 
that  she  could  feel  the  solemn  rushing  of  the 
water  journeying  southward  and  to-day  she  let 
herself  drift  away  upon  its  tawny  flood  and 
dreamed  the  long,  Summer  hours  through  until 
it  seemed  true  that  she  and  Jack  and  no  other  in 
all  the  world  were  gliding  along  with  the  cur 
rent,  slipping  away  from  the  sinister  shadows  and 
the  mocking  mysteries  that  were  settling  down 
upon  the  valley,  so  that  with  all  its  wideness  and 
all  its  promise  one  must  choke  with  the  creeping 
shadows  unless  one  could  slip  away  as  she  and 
Jack  were  slipping  —  quietly  —  with  no  one  to 
know  —  out  of  the  gloom  and  into  the  sun-shot 
land  of  their  own  people. 

And  then  Tom  stopped  on  his  way  home.  His 
mother  and  Louis  had  gone  directly  to  the  Seven- 
up  from  Velpen  earlier  in  the  day,  but  Tom  had 
found  it  necessary  to  visit  one  of  his  northern 
line  ranches  and  was  only  now  on  his  way  home. 
Josephine  had  long  since  forgotten  that  she  had 
meant  to  sew.  Now,  however,  she  picked  up  the 
work  that  had  fallen  from  her  idle  fingers  and 
smiled  to  think  how  far  away  she  had  been,  and 
was  glad,  when  he  sat  down  beside  her  on  the 

[168] 


THE    BIG    GULCH 

rough  log  door  step,  because  she  was  not  to  be 
alone  for  a  little  while,  anyway. 

"Where  is  Jack?"  he  asked,  wondering  why 
her  eyes  had  grown  so  much  sadder  since  he  had 
seen  her  last  —  only  yesterday. 

"He  has  gone  to  town,"  she  said.  And  then  it 
came  to  her  —  what  Jack  had  said :  "  I  am  afraid 
Tom  knows."  If  Tom  knew,  why  did  he  not  tell 
them?  A  vague  doubt  stirred  in  her  heart.  She 
glanced  at  him  quickly.  The  gray  eyes  were 
looking  at  her  steadily,  full  of  friendliness.  How 
strong  he  was!  How  strong  he  had  been  and 
how  quick  on  that  day  when  he  had  drawn  her 
away  from  the  dark  water  that  was  rushing  and 
writhing  under  the  ice.  He  had  not  faltered  once 
nor  hesitated  in  that  great  hour  of  her  peril  — 
and  his.  She  should  like  to  ask  him  if  the  steal 
ing  of  the  cow  was  all  one  with  that  supposedly 
wide-spread  feeling  against  them  as  home 
steaders,  and  whether  it  was  an  earnest  of  what 
was  to  come  if  they  remained  in  the  cattle  coun 
try.  She  should  like  to  ask  him  how  universal 
was  the  prejudice.  He  would  know  and  he  could 
tell  them  what  to  do.  But  if  he  already  knew, 
why  did  he  not  tell  them?  Were  she  and  Jack 
the  ones  to  beg  the  courtesy  of  fair  dealing?  Or 

[169] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

to  force  a  confidence  upon  one  who  would  per 
haps  receive  it  reluctantly?  Her  pride  rebelled. 
It  might  be  that  his  interests,  too,  demanded  that 
they  leave  the  country.  Perhaps  that  was  what 
Jack  meant.  She  had  never  thought  of  that.  It 
was  strange  that  she  and  Jack  should  be  consid 
ered  so  formidable  that  it  was  becoming  neces 
sary  to  send  them  into  exile  —  they  were  just  two 
lonely  young  people  in  a  strange  land.  What 
did  it  all  mean?  Her  mouth  trembled,  her  eyes 
were  heavy  with  unshed  tears,  so  that  she  could 
not  see  to  take  any  more  stitches.  The  big  ranch 
man  who  had  been  waiting  for  her  to  break  the 
silence  between  them  was  troubled. 

''Tell  me  what  it  is  that  troubles  you,  Jose 
phine,"  he  said,  gently. 

"It  is  nothing,"  she  said,  making  a  supreme 
effort  to  control  her  emotion. 

He  tapped  his  high-heeled  riding  boots  with 
his  whip,  restlessly. 

"Josephine,"  he  pleaded  at  last,  his  handsome 
head  very  close  to  hers  as  he  bent  toward  her, 
"something  has  happened.  My  girl,  you  look 
heart-broken.  You  cannot  hide  it  from  me. 
Tell  me.  Let  me  help  you  if  I  can.  Do  not  for 
get  that  we  are  neighbors,  you  and  I." 

[170] 


THE    BIG    GULCH 

"  I  am  very  foolish,  Mr.  Burrington,"  she  said, 
quietly.  "I  have  been  worrying  about  Jack  — 
just  as  if  he  could  not  take  care  of  himself  any 
where.  But  somehow  I  cannot  help  thinking  of 
him  as  a  boy  all  the  time  and  fussing  over  him 
accordingly.  He  would  not  thank  me  for  it,  I 
am  sure.  Mr.  LaDue  politely  stole  one  of  our 
cows  the  other  day  and  Jack  naturally  objected 
to  such  high-handed  procedure  and  has  gone  up 
to  town  to  see  what  the  law  can  do  for  us  and 
for  him.  There  is  not  the  least  cause  for  worry. 
I  just  got  to  thinking." 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  this  yesterday?" 
asked  Tom,  gravely. 

"Why  should  you  have  been  compelled  to  give 
ear  to  our  little  private  quarrels  when  you  had  so 
much  to  think  about  that  was  of  more  im 
portance?"  she  counter-questioned.  "You  will 
stay  for  supper?" 

"No,"  he  said,  rising.  "I  must  go.  I  have 
been  up  country  and  want  to  get  home  before 
dark.  Josephine—  "  he  began  and  stopped.  He 
wanted  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  make  her  tell 
him  why  she  cried,  but  the  proud  little  tilt  to  her 
chin  restrained  him.  He  turned  quickly  and  was 
gone.  Josephine  was  alone  again. 

[171] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

The  sun  was  getting  low  when  she  buckled  on 
her  leggings  and  pinned  on  her  big  hat  to  go  for 
the  cattle.  The  new  feeding  grounds  for  the 
Broken  Key  herd  were  about  one  mile  distant, 
just  beyond  the  big  gulch  which  led  down  from 
the  edge  of  the  high  ridge  of  hills  on  the  west  to 
the  river,  meandering  somewhat  up  by  the  hills, 
following  the  line  of  least  resistance,  but  on  the 
bottom  cutting  almost  squarely  across  the  land 
which  Josephine  Carroll  had  staked  out  for  her 
self.  In  June,  when  the  annual  rise  was  at  its 
flood,  the  overflow  backed  up  the  deep,  narrow 
ravine  for  some  distance  but  seldom  as  far  as  the 
old  trail,  which  was  a  relic  of  the  days  when  Da- 
kotah  pony  herds  held  sway  and  when  no  white 
man 's  cattle  might  feed  on  this  rich  land,  with  its 
inestimable  water  front,  without  permission  of  the 
Government.  But  now  on  this  last  day  of  May, 
the  water  was  comparatively  low  and  the  gulch 
lay  safe  and  dry  from  its  source  up  in  the  hills 
to  the  very  river  itself.  Josephine  rode  slowly. 
The  sun  was  still  above  the  broken  line  of  the 
horizon  —  the  evenings  were  long  and  light  —  so 
that  there  was  little  danger  of  darkness  falling 
before  she  had  her  little  bunch  safely  corralled 

[1723 


THE    BIG    GULCH 

unless  many  had  strayed  away.  She  was  grow 
ing  used  to  the  direct  sun  of  the  plains  and  the 
white  glare  troubled  her  but  little  these  days,  and 
now  that  the  rays  were  yellowing  and  struck  her 
slantingly,  she  did  not  mind  them  at  all,  but  took 
off  her  wide  hat  and  pinned  it  to  her  saddle  horn. 
She  was  cooler  so.  The  prairie  dogs  scolded  her 
in  shrill,  vigorous  language  as  she  rode  through 
their  village,  defying  her  smartly,  only  to  skurry 
into  ignominious  retreat  when  she  passed  near 
them  in  friendly  spirit,  innocent  alike  of  the  in 
tent  or  of  the  arms  of  war.  Gradually,  the  calm 
of  the  Summer  evening  came  to  Josephine.  The 
day  was  done.  It  was  over,  all  the  anger,  the  hurt 
confidence,  and  the  vague,  uneasy  groping  after 
something  that  could  not  be  grasped,  for  all  the 
groping  endeavor.  Jack  would  soon  come  now 
and  there  would  be  a  cheery  little  late  supper, 
a  talk  on  the  door  step  in  the  sweet,  wide  outdoors 
of  the  moonlit  night, —  and  to-morrow  would  be 
a  new  day. 

The  cattle  had  not  strayed  far.  Neither  were 
they  of  a  contrary  temper  to-night.  They  filed 
across  the  big  gulch  slowly,  but  of  one  mind. 
Josephine  hummed  a  snatch  of  a  Southern  folk 


[173] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

song  happily  to  herself  and  thought  of  many 
things  that  were  of  little  kin  to  the  thoughts  of 
the  day  that  was  done. 

Shortly  before  this,  a  man  had  made  his  way 
leisurely  through  the  heavy  undergrowth  to  the 
northern  end  of  the  island,  crossed  the  slough, 
which  was  lower  and  wetter  at  this  point  than 
farther  below,  on  a  reef  of  rocks,  entered  the 
mouth  of  the  gulch  and  sauntered  carelessly 
westward.  He  had  not  progressed  far,  in  truth 
the  old  pony  trail  lay  dusty  and  travelworn  still 
some  distance  before  him,  when  he  heard  a  faint 
sound.  He  paused,  inclining  his  ear  to  the  north. 
He  had  not  been  mistaken.  The  sound  was 
plainly  distinguishable  in  the  hush  of  the  early 
evening.  He  hesitated  a  moment.  A  clod  of 
dirt,  loosened  by  the  touch  of  heavy  feet,  went 
rolling  down  the  trail  and  at  the  same  time  a 
little  cloud  of  dust  arose  as  the  vanguard  of  the 
Broken  Key  herd  slid  down  the  steep  pathway. 
Nearer  to  the  trail,  a  clump  of  cedars  growing 
from  the  northern  side  made  an  excellent  hiding 
place.  But  the  leader  of  the  herd  was  already 
climbing  the  opposite  incline.  He  heard  a  clear, 
joyous,  ringing  cattle  call  and  the  voice  that  sent 

[174] 


THE    BIG    GULCH 

it  forth  on  the  still  air  was  a  girl 's  voice.  With 
out  proceeding  any  farther  toward  the  trail,  he 
climbed  half  way  up  the  bank  and  crept  into  the 
shadow  of  a  small  hollow  that  had  been  washed 
out  by  the  spring  rains.  Then  he  waited,  and 
presently  Josephine,  softly  singing  her  mournful, 
sweet  melody,  rode  down  into  the  valley. 

The  old  trail  was  destined  to  be  not  a  lonely 
trail  that  night.  It  was  as  if  the  ghosts  of  the 
dim  past,  of  a  day  when  the  dusky  habitants 
made  history  that  was  never  written,  had  returned 
for  one  mad  revel  —  in  memoriam.  Up  from  the 
south  came  a  horseman.  He  rode  rapidly, 
straight  in  his  stirrups,  his  hat  brim  blown  back 
by  the  violent  friction  with  the  air.  The  little 
dogs  fairly  scampered  out  of  sight  at  the  first 
beat  of  his  horse's  feet  on  their  sod  without  even 
taking  time  to  bark  at  him.  He  had  seen  the 
straggling  line  of  the  herd  coming  home  and  was 
riding  to  meet  it.  He,  too,  heard  the  clear,  sweet 
call,  and  saw  the  lithe  figure  of  the  unconscious 
girl  ride  down  into  the  dim  valley.  The  sound 
of  the  voice  brought  a  gleam  into  the  gray  eyes, 
the  sight  of  Josephine  sent  the  blood  racing 
tumultuously  through  his  veins  so  that  he  thrilled 

[175] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

with  the  glory  of  it.  If  he  spurred  his  horse  yet 
more,  he  would  meet  her  just  as  she  reached  the 
level  again. 

What  was  that  thing  which  moved  there  by 
the  hollow?  Had  one  of  the  herd  strayed  from 
the  beaten  trail?  Or  was  it  some  lone,  gaunt 
timber  wolf  lurking  near  to  see  if  a  calf  or  some 
weakling  of  the  herd  did  not  drop  out  of  the 
ranks  and  linger  to  its  undoing?  The  rider,  still 
on  the  run,  threw  up  his  arm  to  keep  the  after 
glow  out  of  his  eyes,  while  he  swept  the  darkening 
hollow  with  the  keen  and  comprehensive  sight  of 
the  men  of  the  plains.  Suddenly,  he  knew.  A 
great  sternness  settled  around  his  mouth.  His 
eyes  became  cold  and  hard  as  steel,  while  the  fierce 
desire  to  kill  well-nigh  choked  him  with  its  in 
sistent  clamoring  to  be  heard.  He  was  a  very 
primitive  man  indeed  in  this  hour  when  one  spied 
upon  the  woman  whom  in  his  heart  he  had  chosen 
for  his  own.  He  drew  rein  so  suddenly  that  his 
well-trained  cow  pony  settled  back  upon  its 
haunches  as  if  with  the  intuitive  expectation  of 
the  feel  of  the  tautenihg  rope,  even  though  he  had 
not  heard  the  little  sing  of  it  as  it  cut  through 
the  air.  For  a  moment,  he  hesitated.  What  was 
the  fellow's  business?  Why  was  he  hiding  while 

[176] 


THE    BIG    GULCH 

Josephine  rode  across  the  ravine?  Who  was  he? 
And  then  he  turned  white  and  cold,  sitting  on  his 
horse  out  there  on  the  grassy  level,  with  night 
coming  on,  although  he  did  not  feel  it,  did  not 
know  it  then,  for  his  nerve  was  never  steadier, 
his  sight  never  truer  than  when  he  raised  his  rifle 
to  the  level  of  his  right  shoulder  and  sped  the 
bullet  that  struck  down  the  hand  in  the  hollow 
that  had  steadied  another  gun  pointing  with 
deadly  menace  up  the  valley.  He  shot  twice 
again  in  rapid  succession,  and  then  his  horse 
sprang  forward  at  the  cruel  jab  of  the  spurs. 
When  he  came  to  the  edge  of  the  gulch,  the  man 
was  gone,  gone  as  if  the  earth  had  swallowed 
him,  and  there  was  only  Josephine  in  the  valley. 
She  was  white  of  cheek  and  there  was  a  startled, 
hunted  look  in  her  dark  eyes.  She  had  uncon 
sciously  dismounted  and  stood  trembling  by  her 
pony's  shaggy  neck. 

"He  —  went  toward  —  the  river,"  she  whis 
pered,  tremulously. 

"Who,  Josephine?"  asked  Tom,  a  dangerous 
quiet  in  his  voice.  He,  toofdismounted  and  came 
close  to  her. 

"I  didn't  see  him.  I  only  heard  him,"  she 
answered,  sobbingly. 

[177] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

"Why,  Josephine,"  said  Tom,  reassuringly, 
UI  did  not  mean  to  frighten  you  like  this.  But 
it  was  such  a  fine  chance  —  or  it  seemed  to  be, 
rather  —  that  I  shot  without  thinking  of  you,  I 
am  afraid.  If  I  had  not  been  such  a  blamed 
bungler  you  might  have  had  a  fine  skin  for  your 
floor.  He  was  on  your  land,  you  know,  so  that 
I  should  have  been  in  duty  bound  to  surrender 
the  spoils  to  you.  I  —  am  not  used  to  missing,"  he 
continued,  with  an  engaging  smile.  "  It  hurts  my 
pride.  He  was  at  ridiculously  close  range,  too." 

"Why,  what  did  you  shoot  at?"  demanded 
Josephine,  in  unfeigned  surprise  and  relief. 

"A  big,  gray  wolf,  bless  you,  who  coveted  one 
of  your  fat  heifers,"  returned  Tom,  promptly. 
"I  came  back  to  see  Jack  about  that  which  you 
were  telling  me  about  this  afternoon  —  I  could 
not  get  it  off  my  mind  —  and  was  riding  to  meet 
you  when  that  pesky  rascal  crept  across  my  vision 
and  —  I  missed  him." 

"I  thought  it  was  a  man,"  said  Josephine,  and 
then,  because  she  was  ashamed  of  her  unwar 
ranted  fright,  she  flung  up  her  head  and  looked 
at  him  defiantly,  two  red  spots  burning  in  her 
cheeks.  But  something  in  his  face  made  her  ask, 
doubtfully : 

[178] 


THE    BIG    GULCH 

"You  are  not  lying  to  me,  are  you?" 

"(No,  Josephine,  I  am  not  lying  —  honest," 
he  said,  unsteadily. 

She  seemed  so  alone  there  in  the  valley  that 
would  henceforth  be  a  valley  of  shadows  for 
Josephine,  and  she  was  far,  far  dearer  to  him 
than  he  had  ever  before  dreamed,  even  when  he 
had  tried,  sometimes,  to  think  of  the  cow  country 
with  her  gone  from  it.  The  effort  he  made  not 
to  snatch  her  to  him,  mount  and  ride  away  with 
her,  somewhere,  anywhere,  only  with  her,  out  of 
the  shadows,  shook  in  his  voice. 

"Come,  Josephine,  let  me  help  you  mount  and 
I  will  take  you  home." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  she  put  her  foot  into 
it,  gave  a  little  spring  and  slipped  into  her  saddle. 
But  she  was  not  yet  free.  His  strong  arms  were 
clasped  tightly  around  her  and  he  leaned  his  head 
against  her,  standing  thus,  dumb,  while  real 
twilight  crept  over  all  the  land  and  in  the  valley 
it  grew  quite  dark.  Josephine  forgot  to  ask  him 
why,  if  he  knew,  he  had  not  told  them,  and,  a 
little  blindly,  let  her  ungauntletted  hand  grope 
softly  through  his  hair  as  he  stood  looking  up  at 
her. 

"Do  you  love  me,  Josephine?"  he  whispered. 

[179] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

"Let  me  go,  Tom,"  she  said,  unsteadily.  "We 
must  go  home.  The  cattle  will  stray." 

She  tried  to  unclasp  his  hands  with  earnest, 
ineffectual  fingers  —  so  ineffectual  that  Tom 
laughed,  suddenly  caught  the  little  struggling 
hands  in  his,  laid  his  face  upon  them,  kissed  them, 
held  them  against  his  breast,  kissed  them  again, 
then  released  her,  and  they  rode  together  out  of 
the  valley. 


[180] 


T 


CHAPTER    XII 

HONOR  AMONG  THIEVES 

F  it  had  been  I,  now,"  said  Jack,  "I  could 
believe  that  mischief  was  meant.  But  Jose 
phine  —  why,  what  could  any  one  have  against 
Josephine?  Men  do  not  make  war  on  women, 
Tom,  especially  without  good  cause  —  and  what 
cause  has  that  generous-hearted  girl  given  for 
such  deviltry?  For  that  matter,  what  have  I 
done?  But,  with  or  without  reason,  I  have  been 
literally  hounded  since  the  day  of  my  arrival. 
Frankly  speaking,  I  resent  it.  I  shall  continue  to 
resent  it,  and  that  right  smartly.  Some  day,  when 
I  have  gained  immunity,  I  shall  demand  explana 
tion  and  apology.  Meanwhile,  I  am  biding  my 
time.  I  shall  not  be  surprised  at  anything  that 
anybody  may  attempt  to  do  to  me  ;  but  I  honestly 
think  that  you  are  mistaken  about  such  evil 
intent  towards  Josephine,  Tom." 

"Granted  that  men  do  not  war  on  women," 
returned  Burrington,  gravely,  "what  about 
brutes?  Can  you  say  the  same  of  them?  You 
did  not  see  what  I  saw,  Jack.  I  think  you  would 
believe  what  I  believe  if  you  had  seen." 

[181] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

It  was  very  early.  Josephine,  singing  happily 
over  the  getting  of  the  breakfast,  wondered 
what  errand  had  brought  their  neighbor  of  the 
Seven-up  so  early  in  the  morning.  Would  he 
say  anything  to  Jack  about  what  had  happened 
last  night?  She  did  not  mean  about  the  missing 
of  the  wolf  —  of  course  Tom  would  tell  that- 
had  told  it  last  night,  in  all  probability  —  though 
she  could  not  altogether  remember.  It  was  like 
him  to  tell  that  on  himself,  laughingly.  Men 
usually  sure  of  themselves  could  always  afford 
a  laugh  at  their  own  expense.  But  what  had 
happened  afterward  —  would  he  say  anything 
about  that  ?  After  all,  what  had  happened  ?  She 
could  not  altogether  remember. 

Jack  was  down  at  the  woodpile  splitting  wood 
when  Tom  rode  into  the  clearing.  They  had  not 
come  up  to  the  house  at  all  and  were  talking 
earnestly  together  right  there  at  the  woodpile, 
Jack  leaning  against  a  sapling,  his  brown  face 
still  damp  and  flushed  from  his  recent  exertion, 
while  Tom  Burrington,  still  mounted,  though 
sitting  with  both  feet  on  one  side  of  the  saddle, 
absently  trailed  the  thongs  of  his  whip  over  the 
toes  of  his  riding  boots.  It  was  obviously  a  grave 
matter  —  that  upon  which  their  minds  were  bent. 

[182] 


HONOR   AMONG   THIEVES 

Well,  it  was  a  serious  situation  —  hers  —  if  that 
was  what  engrossed  their  attention.  How  could 
she  ever  leave  Jack?  He  was  in  trouble  and  he 
was  alone  but  for  her  —  and  besides,  she  had 
forgotten  —  how  easy  it  was,  sometimes,  to  for 
get —  did  Tom  Burrington  know  something  that 
he  ought  to  tell  them  and  would  not?  Even 
though  he  himself  were  free  of  personal  blame, 
yet  if  he  knew  and  would  not  tell  them  —  that 
good  honor,  which  makes  loyalty  to  class  an  obli 
gation  that  high-minded  men  may  not  disregard, 
had  been  offended,  and  that  offence  was  always 
unforgivable.  What  should  she  say  when  the 
boys  came  up?  But  the  boys  did  not  come. 

"You  did  not  know  the  man?"  asked  Jack, 
thoughtfully. 

"I  did  not  recognize  him.  It  was  dusky  in 
the  gulch  and  he  had  disappeared  when  the  smoke 
of  my  gun  had  lifted.  Don't  you  think  that  if 
he  had  not  been  on  some  devil 's  errand  he  would 
have  made  his  presence  known?  I  tell  you,  Car 
roll,  it  looks  bad." 

"  Still,  he  might  not  have  known  that  you  were 
a  peaceful  and  law-abiding  citizen.  You  must 
confess  that  you  made  your  advent  upon  the 
scene  in  rather  a  startling  and  belligerent  man- 

[183] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

ner.  I  do  not  know  anything,  Tom,  of  course, 
but  I  just  cannot  believe  that  any  one  would 
want  to  kill  Josephine.  Kill  Josephine!  Why, 
it  is  a  monstrous  thought.  I  do  not  believe  it." 

"Not  know  me?  Of  course  he  knew  me! 
Everybody  knows  me,  and  that  is  not  sounding 
my  own  praises,  by  any  means.  To  be  sure  he 
knew  me.  Besides,  I  was  in  the  light  on  the  up 
land  while  he  was  in  shadow.  He  could  n't  help 
but  know  me.  Moreover,  if  he  took  me  for  a 
desperate  character,  why  did  he  not  stay  and 
fight  for  Josephine.  Tell  me  that,  Carroll. 
There  is  n't  a  man  on  the  Seven-up  who  would 
sneak  away  and  leave  a  Dakotah  Indian  woman 
in  danger  under  such  circumstances,  let  alone  a 
white  woman.  I  tell  you,  you  must  take  Jose 
phine  South  or  else  give  her  — 

He  stopped  short,  while  involuntarily  his  eyes 
sought  and  found  the  open  doorway  of  the  cabin 
where  the  figure  of  a  girl  passed  once  in  a  while 
and  sometimes  glanced  his  way.  Jack  did  not 
notice  the  significance  of  the  pause. 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  he  said.  "Yes, 
why  did  he  run  from  you  and  why  did  he  run 
from  Josephine?  I  don't  know  what  to  do, 
Tom.  If  I  take  her  South,  that  means  a  general 

[184] 


HONOR  AMONG   THIEVES 

break-up.  She  would  not  stay  there  unless  I 
gave  up  my  hold  here  and  stayed  with  her.  I 
should  have  to  tell  her  the  reason  for  her  going 
back  —  part  of  it,  at  least  —  so  she  would  never 
consent  to  my  coming  back  here.  I  know  Jose 
phine —  and  there  are  only  we  two,  you  know. 
I  cannot  afford  to  give  up.  We  have  risked  too 
much  to  pick  up  and  leave  it  all  —  except  of 
necessity.  Of  course,  if  what  you  say  is  true,  I 
shall  not  hesitate  a  moment  to  take  her  away; 
but  it  is  so  hard  to  believe  and  I  am  much  dis 
posed  to  stay  and  find  out  for  myself  what  it  all 
means.  I  shall  not  leave  Josephine  alone  again," 
he  drew  himself  up  a  little  proudly,  "so  there 
is  no  cause  for  worry  on  that  score.  Until  I 
ascertain  the  meaning  of  the  deviltry  that  seems 
to  be  in  the  air,  I  shall  not  let  Josephine  out  of 
my  sight.  You  may  rest  assured  of  that.  If 
it  is  as  you  say,  I  shall  then  take  Josephine  South 
and  come  back  and  put  the  snake-in-the-grass 
where  his  fangs  won't  count  for  much  any  more." 
"You  will  do  as  you  think  best,  of  course," 
said  Burrington,  perceiving  by  the  younger 
man's  attitude  that  the  subject  was  closed.  "By 
the  way,  Carroll,"  he  continued,  casually,  "that 
was  not  my  only  object  in  coming  to  see  you  this 

[185] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

morning.  I  had  two  axes  to  grind,  in  fact. 
How  would  you  feel  about  taking  a  little  ex 
cursion  up  into  the  Westover  country?  I  need 
a  man  and  you  are  just  the  kind  I  want  —  all 
grit  and  nerve.  Josephine  could  stay  with 
mother,  you  know,  and  I  'd  send  a  boy  over  to 
look  after  your  stock.  What  do  you  say?" 

Jack  hesitated  just  a  moment  —  for  Jose 
phine's  sake;  but  when  he  thought  of  that  Feb 
ruary  storm  and  of  Tom  Burrington's  part  in 
it,  all  doubt  as  to  his  course  left  him  immediately. 

"I  say  that  I  am  your  man  with  all  my  heart," 
said  the  boy  from  the  South,  promptly.  "You 
have  found  yourself  a  loser?" 

"To  the  tune  of  seventeen  head  of  as  fine 
horses  as  run  on  this  side  Old  Muddy.  They  are 
the  home  ranging  kind,  too,  and  yet  I  have 
scoured  the  whole  near  country  for  them  —  rode 
two  days  and  could  not  get  wind  of  them  at  all 
until  last  night  late  —  heard  then  that  some  one 
had  seen  them  up  near  Westover.  Now  that 
means  foul  play,  of  course  —  home  horses  do  not 
find  themselves  away  up  at  Westover  —  unless 
they  are  native  to  the  soil  or  are  helped  there  — 
one  of  the  two.  Horses,  as  you  probably  know, 
do  not  wander  like  cattle.  It  will  not  be  a  pleas- 

[186] 


HONOR   AMONG   THIEVES 

ure  party  by  any  means,  Jack,  and  I  shall  not 
be  at  all  hurt  if  you  decline  to  go.  Now  please 
do  not  go  dignified  so  quickly.  No  one  doubts 
your  nerve.  I  was  thinking  of  Josephine." 

"She  need  not  know  our  errand,"  interrupted 
Josephine's  brother,  with  convincing  brevity. 
"As  for  the  rest,  according  to  your  own  theory, 
she  is  safer  surely  at  the  Seven-up  than  at  the 
Broken  Key." 

It  had  come  to  him,  suddenly,  illuminatingly, 
who  it  was  that  Burrington  suspected  and  that 
the  quest  might  not  be  for  horses  alone,  but  one 
in  which  Tom  Burrington  knew  that  he,  Jack, 
would  be  with  him  heart  and  soul.  Perhaps  — 
the  thought  brought  out  stern  lines  of  determina 
tion  about  the  boyish  mouth  —  perhaps  the  time 
was  come  when,  as  he  had  said,  "the  snake-in-the- 
grass  would  be  put  where  his  fangs  would  not 
count  for  much  any  more." 

"Then  you  are  with  me?  " 

"Do  we  start  this  morning? "  asked  John 
Calhoun  Carroll,  calmly. 

It  was  early  twilight  when  they  rode  silently 
up  to  the  corral  at  Dave  Myers's  ranch  on  White 
River.  They  were  seeking  refreshment  and 
lodging  for  the  night  after  almost  a  full  day  in 

[1871 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

the  saddle.  They  had  been  following  a  pretty 
well  defined  trail  by  rumor  for  some  time,  but 
had  lately  lost  it.  It  was  folly  to  ride  a  blind 
trail  by  night.  Dave  was  a  good  fellow  and 
would  give  them  the  best  accommodation  he 
could.  They  would  just  turn  their  horses  in  with 
the  rest  before  going  to  the  house.  There  was 
no  doubt  in  the  world  of  Myers's  hospitality. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  one  about  the  place.  The 
house  wore  a  deserted  look.  Still,  that  could 
make  no  difference  in  their  arrangements.  They 
should  simply  enter  unbidden,  cook  some  supper, 
and  then  rest  their  tired  bodies  on  the  object 
which  looked  the  most  like  a  bed  among  the  half- 
breed's  heterogeneous  collection  of  makeshift 
house  furnishings. 

"  Good  horses  he  's  got,  "  said  Jack,  drawing 
rein  at  the  gate. 

A  short  silence  followed,  during  which  Jack 
stretched  his  wearied  limbs  and  longed  heartily 
with  the  longing  of  a  hungry  boy  for  the  supper 
that  had  yet  to  be  prepared. 

"He  has,  indeed,"  assented  Tom,  at  last, 
grimly.  "You  never  see  that  brand  on  any  other 
kind.  I  for  one  do  not  challenge  his  taste.  The 
trouble  is  that  the  owner  of  that  brand  is  not 

[188] 


HONOR   AMONG    THIEVES 

the  only  good  judge  of  horseflesh  in  this 
country." 

Jack  emitted  a  low  whistle  of  surprise  and 
then  said,  with  untroubled  serenity : 

"Well,  I  am  right  glad  to  find  the  trail  again." 

:'You  are  a  brick,  dear  boy,"  was  the  older 
man's  only  response  as  he  slipped  from  his  horse 
and  proceeded  calmly  to  relieve  him  of  saddle 
and  bridle.  This  accomplished,  he  opened  the 
gate  and  sent  the  horse  in  to  rest  among  his  one 
time  mates. 

"  Is  n't  this  high-handed  procedure  a  trifle 
risky?"  asked  Jack,  following  suit  with  ready 
adaptability  to  the  lead  of  the  chief. 

"I  have  not  an  idea  at  just  what  point  the 
pesky  rascals  may  decide  to  return  to  gloat  over 
their  lucky  haul.  A  Seven-up  concealed  in  the 
bushes  would  not  strike  them  exactly  in  the 
light  of  a  white  flag  of  truce,  I  am  thinking; 
and  I  imagine  that  a  Broken  Key  would  not 
have  the  effect  of  soothing  syrup,  either.  It 
will  be  too  dark  to  notice  the  difference  in  the 
bunch." 

"Y,ou  are  evidently  not  thinking  seriously  of 
quietly  driving  the  bunch  home  now  in  order  to 
save  all  further  trouble,"  said  Jack,  with  a  smile. 

[189] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

"  Such  a  thought  is  certainly  not  weighting  me 
down  at  present,"  said  Tom,  leading  the  way  to 
the  house.  "It  seems  to  me  that  I  should  kind 
of  like  to  know  who  it  is  that  has  such  an  uncon 
trolled  hankering  after  the  fleshpots  of  the 
Seven-up.  Not  Dave  Myers  —  I  doubt  if  he 
knows  anything  about  this.  Would  n't  you  like 
to  know,  too,  Jack?"  he  concluded,  with  a 
peculiar  significance. 

"That  I  would,"  agreed  Jack,  heartily,  his 
blood  tingling  with  the  lust  of  conflict. 

"And  besides,"  continued  Tom,  calmly,  "I 
counted  only  ten.  I  want  my  other  seven." 

They  took  no  extraordinary  precaution  to  con 
ceal  their  presence.  In  truth,  it  was  not  many 
minutes  before  a  cheerful  fire  was  rumbling  in 
the  rusty  stove  and  the  smoke  of  it  was  curling 
up  into  the  slowly  coming  darkness  of  the  summer 
night.  While  Jack,  with  the  sure  instinct  of 
healthy  hunger,  peered  into  likely  places  for 
flour  and  cured  meat  and  coffee,  the  more  prac 
tical  Tom  fed  the  fire  and  put  the  skillet  on  to 
heat  for  the  flapjacks  it  devolved  upon  him  to 
make. 

"If  they  see  our  fire,  they  will  only  think  that 
Dave  has  returned,"  he  remarked,  casually,  to 

[190] 


HONOR   AMONG    THIEVES 

his  companion,  "and  they  are  evidently  counting 
on  Dave  's  not  talking  if  he  does  come  back,  so 
what  is  to  hinder  our  having  a  fine  supper?  I 
for  one  am  fairly  starved." 

At  that  moment,  the  door  was  quietly  opened 
and  a  boy  entered  the  room.  He  seemed  not 
older  than  twelve  years  and  his  thin  face  went 
haggard  with  a  child's  dread  as  he  saw  who  it 
was  that  so  unconcernedly  sifted  flour  over  there 
by  the  table. 

"I  thought  —  they  had  come  back,"  he  fal 
tered,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  door,  his 
hand  nervously  clasping  the  latch  string  behind 
him. 

"Who?"  asked  Tom,  indifferently,  mixing 
dough  as  if  everything  else  in  all  the  world  was 
of  little  worth  as  compared  with  this  work  upon 
which  he  was  bent. 

"I  -  -  I  —  das'n't  tell,"  said  the  boy.  "  He  'd 
kill  me  if  I  told." 

"Who  would  kill  you,  little  chap?"  asked 
Tom,  gently,  thinking  of  another  boy  who  was 
about  this  waif's  age  and  who  was  very  close 
indeed  to  the  heart  of  the  elder  brother. 

"He  would.    I  —  das'n't  tell." 

'  Well,  never  mind.     You  need  n't  tell,  little 

[191] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

chap,  if  you  don't  want  to.     You  are  called  the 
White  Slave  hereabouts,  are  you  not?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"  I  don't  know,  "  said  the  boy  miserably. 

"Well,  I  do,"  said  the  ranchman,  with  a  sigh. 
"Boy,  do  you  know  me?" 

"Yes." 

'  Then  do  just  as  I  tell  you  to-night,  and  - 
you  shall  not  be  called  the  White   Slave   any 
longer.    Do  you  understand?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head. 

"Listen  then.  It  is  I  who  have  the  upper 
hand  now.  You  see  that,  don't  you?  You  will 
do  well  to  serve  me  to-night.  In  fact,  boy,  you 
had  better!  When  —  he  —  comes  back,  do  his 
bidding,  but  say  nothing  about  us.  You  under 
stand  that  much?  Well,  make  your  choice." 

"  I  don't  think  he  will  come  to-night,  "  said 
the  boy,  after  a  short  silence.  '  I  don't  think 
any  one  will  come  back  before  three  o  'clock. 
That 's  why  I  could  n't  understand  the  smoke." 

"  Don't  lie  to  me!"  cried  Tom,  sternly.  "  TeU 
me  the  truth.  How  many  are  there?" 

"  I  don't  know.  " 

"Who  is  the  leader?" 

[192] 


HONOR   AMONG   THIEVES 

"  I  —  das'n't  tell." 

"Oh,  he  's  the  one  who  'd  kill  you,  is  he?    Why 
are  n't  you  looking  for  him  to-night?  " 

'  'Cause  he  's  gone." 

"Whereto?" 

"  I  —  das'n't  tell." 

"Then  the  devil  take  you,"  exclaimed  Tom,  in 
exasperation. 

"My  boy,"  put  in  Jack,  quietly,  "if  you  will 
tell  me  the  truth,  you  will  not  have  to  work  for 
these  men  any  longer.  I  do  not  think  you  quite 
understood  Mr.  Burrington.  Come  here.  Poor 
kid!  You  have  no  father  or  mother,  have  you? 
I  thought  not.  Neither  have  I.  Would  n't  you 
like  to  live  at  the  Broken  Key?  I  need  some  one 
to  herd  my  cattle.  You  would  never  have  to 
come  back  here,  and  —  there  are  no  "white  slaves" 
at  the  Broken  Key.  If  you  will  tell  me  where 
your  master  is  and  where  the  rest  of  Mr.  Bur- 
rington's  horses  are  and  when  any  one  is  ex 
pected  back  here,  you  can  go  away  with  me  in 
the  morning  and  you  can  stay  with  me  for  — 
always,  if  you  like.  It  is  as  Mr.  Burrington  says 
—  we  have  the  upper  hand  now,  but  your 
answering  my  questions  may  prevent  bloodshed. 
Won't  you  tell  me?" 

[193] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

The  White  Slave  stared  at  him  with  dilating 
eyes. 

"Are  you  the  man  he  calls  Carroll?"  he 
stammered. 

"I  am." 

"Why,  he  —  he  —  " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Jack,  "that  he  hates  me 
-  that  is,  if  we  are  talking  about  the  same  man, 
and  I  think  we  are.    He  hates  Mr.  Burrington, 
too.     But  what  difference  does  that  make  be 
tween  you  and  me?" 

"Well,  I  won't  tell  his  name,"  said  the  boy, 
with  superstitious  stubbornness.  "He'd  hear 
it,  someway,  all  right.  He  'd  know  I  told.  He 
knows  everything." 

"Where  is  he  now?"  asked  Jack,  quietly. 
"You  will  tell  me,  won't  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know  where  he  is.  He  said  he  was 
going  to  the  dugout.  If  you  know  where  that 
is,  you  know  more  than  I  do.  He  took  some 
horses  with  him." 

'  You  are  sure  you  don't  know  where  the  dug 
out  is?" 

'  I  don't  know  —  honest.  They  never  tell  me 
their  secrets." 

"When  did  he  start?" 

[194] 


HONOR  AMONG   THIEVES 

"At  sun-down." 

"By  Jove!"  cried  Tom.  "If  we  'd  only  been 
a  half-hour  earlier!  " 

"What  direction  did  he  go?" 

"He  crossed  White  River." 

"And  when  are  the  other  fellows  coming 
back?"  asked  Jack,  with  a  keen,  though  veiled 
glance  at  the  boy. 

'  They  said  three  o'clock,"  persisted  the  boy, 
"but  they  crossed  White  River,  too,  and  I  don't 
think  they  intend  to  come  back  until  to-morrow." 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  then,  if  you  are 
not  expecting  them?  "  demanded  Tom,  suspici 
ously. 

"  None  o'  your  business,"  returned  the  White 
Slave,  sullenly.  He  was  afraid  of  the  big  ranch 
man  of  the  Seven-up. 

"Tell  me,  my  boy,"  said  Jack,  gently. 

"Well,  I  was  to  watch  if  anybody  came.  But 
they  wasn't  lookin'  for  no  one  to  come.  And 
I  was  to  be  here  to  feed  their  horses  when  they 
did  come  and  cook  'em  some  grub  —  if  I  wanted 
to  keep  my  liver,"  said  the  boy,  with  evident 
unwillingness. 

"I  know  what  I  am  going  to  do,"  exclaimed 
Tom,  suddenly  and  determinedly.  "I'm  going 

[195] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

to  run  down  the  boss  of  this  little  affair.  If  the 
boy  is  telling  the  truth,  no  one  will  come  back 
here  for  a  day  or  two  at  least.  It  is  not  likely 
they  would  cross  White  River  twice  in  a  night 
unless  there  was  something  pressing.  White 
River  is  up.  I  am  no  good  at  a  waiting  game, 
anyway.  If  the  boy  is  lying,  we  '11  string  him 
up.  Will  you  go  or  stay,  Jack?  I  think  it  would 
be  just  as  well  perhaps  for  you  to  stay  and 
watch  the  premises.  Some  one  might  come  back, 
after  all,  and  you  could  hide  in  the  bushes  and 
report  to  the  officers  to-morrow  —  if  I  don't  get 
back.  But  we  '11  both  go  if  you  say  the  word." 

"You'd  better  both  go,"  advised  the  White 
Slave,  shortly. 

"You  're  such  a  cheerful  liar,  you  know,"  said 
Tom,  calmly,  "that  we  '11  just  do  as  we  please." 

"I  reckon  I  '11  stay,"  said  Jack,  quietly. 

"  Good.  If  I  don't  strike  any  trail,  I'll  be 
back  by  three  o'clock.  Don't  take  any  risks. 
We  're  only  scouting  now,  you  know,  and  it 's 
so  infernally  dark.  Keep  an  eye  on  the  kid.  So 
long." 

He  slipped  out  and  was  gone. 

"Will  you  do  just  as  I  say?"  asked  Jack, 
turning  to  the  boy. 

[196] 


HONOR   AMONG   THIEVES 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy,  with  grateful  submissive- 
ness.  "I  will  mind  you,  Mr.  Jack  Carroll.  Are 
you  goin'  to  hide  in  the  bushes  like  Mr.  Burring- 
ton  said?" 

"No,"  said  Jack,  a  fighting  smile  on  his  lips 
and  a  gleam  in  his  eyes,  "  I  am  not  going  to  hide 
in  the  bushes  like  Mr.  Burrington  said." 

It  was  late  when  the  muffled  sound  of  unhur 
ried  horses'  hoofs  drifted  into  the  quiet  room 
where  Jack  Carroll  waited  for  the  coming  of 
some  one,  his  blood  cooled  with  the  wearisome  and 
indefinite  delay.  He  had  begun  to  think  that 
Tom  had  been  right,  after  all.  He  slouched  back 
in  his  chair  and  listened  sleepily  to  the  frantic 
whirring  of  a  lumbering  June  bug  on  the  wing 
and  the  subsequent  dull  thud  of  its  foolish  con 
tact  with  the  wall.  The  light  had  been  removed 
to  an  inner  room  and  the  kitchen  was  in  complete 
darkness.  The  White  Slave  crouched  by  the 
window  but  faintly  outlined  by  the  darkness 
within.  There  seemed  something  of  stealth  in 
the  approaching  hoof -beats  —  perhaps  because  of 
the  lateness  of  the  hour,  the  stillness  of  all  else, 
and  because  the  sound  was  not  a  running  nor  a 
braggart  sound.  The  steps  came  nearer  —  stop 
ped;  then  startlingly  close,  grimly  amusing  be- 

[197] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

cause  of  its  unconsciousness,  a  deep  yawn  drifted 
in  through  the  window  and  sounded  as  loudly  in 
the  room  as  if  it  had  originated  there.  The  care 
free,  unthinking  act  was  closely  and  harshly  fol 
lowed,  however,  by  the  firing  in  rapid  succession 
of  two  pistol  shots.  The  White  Slave  made  no 
move.  He  seemed  incapable  of  action  until  a 
slight  shove  from  Jack's  foot  warned  him  and  he 
rose  and  slipped  out  into  the  night. 

"  It 's  a  wonder  you  would  n't  take  your  time," 
grumbled  the  man  on  the  horse,  with  rough 
sarcasm.  "I  'm  dead  for  sleep.  Here  you  are. 
Give  him  good  water  and  good  feed  if  you  want 
your  liver  left  whole !  " 

There  was  the  sound  of  an  opening  door.  The 
faintest  light  of  which  a  cloudless,  moonless  but 
starlit  summer  night  is  capable  of  giving  crept 
in,  while  outside  the  ineffectual  lamps  of  the  fire 
flies  gleamed  and  darkened  softly. 

"Hell!"  The  man  still  talked  to  the  boy,  who 
was  already  beyond  hearing.  "It 's  as  dark  as 
the  inside  of  a  cow.  Why  the  devil  did  n't  you 
leave  that  light  in  the  kitchen?" 

He  stumbled  across  the  room  to  the  streak  of 
yellow  that  ran  along  the  floor  and  threw  open 
the  door  leading  into  the  lighted  room  beyond. 

[198] 


HONOR   AMONG   THIEVES 

The  hand  was  a  heavy  one  that  came  down  on 
his  shoulder  at  that  moment,  so  that  he  turned 
squarely  upon  command  and  threw  up  his  hands, 
however  grudgingly,  because  there  was  nothing 
else  to  do  when  he  felt  the  cold  steel  pressing 
against  his  neck.  The  boy  had  played  fair.  He 
had  not  told. 

"You  did  that  right  well,  Mr.  Horse-thief," 
said  Jack,  approvingly.     "A  clean  surrender- 
no  fuss  or  sloppiness  of  any  kind.    Very  good. 
I  approve  of  you." 

"Damn!"  said  the  man,  shortly. 

"Did  Frank  LaDue  go  directly  to  the  stable?" 
asked  Jack,  carelessly. 

"Suppose  you  go  and  see  for  yourself," 
growled  the  captive,  sullenly. 

"Certainly,  with  all  the  pleasure  in  the  world," 
said  Jack,  readily.  "You  just  rest  quietly  as 
you  are  for  a  minute  or  two  while  I  borrow  your 
guns  and  things,  will  you?  I  '11  take  the  belt, 
too,  if  you  don't  mind.  Now,  don't  be  too  pro 
miscuous  with  your  hands,  please.  Just  a  minute 
while  I  make  a  record  tie  with  my  rope.  Hold 
your  hands  close  to  your  sides,"  demanded  Jack, 
sternly. 

There  was  no  mistaking  his  intention  should 

[199] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

there  be  an  offensive  move  on  the  part  of  the  out 
law.  The  sullen  horse-thief,  swearing  softly  all 
the  while,  nevertheless  submitted  to  be  bound 
hand  and  foot  and  rolled  into  a  corner. 

"All  right?  "  asked  Jack,  finally.  "  If  you  are 
ready,  I  reckon  I'll  be  movin*  on." 

He  nodded  to  his  prisoner,  opened  the  door 
and  passed  out.  All  was  still.  There  was  noth 
ing  to  be  heard  but  the  strident  frog  chorus  from 
the  river  yonder.  Presently,  as  he  paused  a 
moment,  listening,  he  thought  he  heard  a  sound 
that  he  knew  over  by  the  corral  —  the  low,  ex 
pectant,  grateful  whinny  of  a  hungry  horse  that 
sees  his  long  delayed  supper  coming  at  last.  He 
walked  swiftly  towards  the  corral,  keeping  well 
in  the  shadows. 

'  Throw  up  your  hands,"  he  cried,  suddenly, 
in  a  low  authoritative  voice,  to  a  dark  shape  just 
emerging  from  the  corral.  The  hands  went  up 
while  a  plaintive  voice  expostulated: 

"Why,  is  that  you,  Mr.  Carroll?  What  you 
got  agin  me?  I  ain't  never  done  nothin'  to  you." 

'  Well,  do  something  for  me  now,  "  said  Jack, 
curtly.  "Make  for  the  house  and  be  quick  about 
it.  Keep  your  hands  up,  please,  until  I  relieve 
you  of  your  playthings.  Now,  then,  hurry,  will 

[200] 


HONOR  AMONG   THIEVES 

you  ?  I  have  an  engagement  with  Frank  LaDue 
to-night  that  I  want  to  keep,  so  step  along  lively, 
please." 

"You  Ve  got  a  long  ride  before  you,  have  n't 
you?"  vouchsafed  the  prisoner,  sociably. 

"Not  so  long  as  it  might  be,"  said  Jack,  with 
brief  significance,  as  they  entered  the  house  where 
the  first  sullen  captive  lay,  grinding  his  teeth  in 
helpless  rage  over  the  shame  of  this  wholesale 
capture  by  one  man  —  and  him  a  pilgrim  from  a 
far-away  country.  The  second  took  the  affair 
more  philosophically  and  grinned  impudently 
into  the  homesteader's  face.  He,  too,  submitted 
without  further  fight.  It  was  an  ugly-looking 
gun,  that,  and  he  did  not  like  the  look  in  the 
young  Southerner's  eyes,  and  besides,  down  deep 
in  his  heart,  he  was  a  coward. 

Again,  Jack  left  the  room.  Were  there  others 
of  the  gang  still  hanging  about  the  premises  or 
were  there  others  yet  to  come?  Was  Frank 
LaDue  concerned  in  this  nefarious  incident?  He 
steadfastly  believed  so.  He  strode  toward  the 
dark  pile  of  the  stable  without  his  former 
wariness.  He  had  been  so  successful  thus  far  that 
his  buoyant  spirits  could  harbor  no  depressing 
premonition  of  a  possible  reverse  of  fortune.  It 

[201] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

had  all  been  so  ridiculously  easy.  Pure  luck  had 
played  into  his  hands.  He  was  almost  ashamed 
of  its  tameness.  He  meant,  however,  to  probe 
this  affair  to  the  foundation  of  it  all.  He  should 
wring  a  complete  confession  from  some  one  or 
all  of  these  men  if  he  had  to  resort  to  some  tor 
ture  process  of  mediaevalism.  To-night  should 
determine  for  them  whether  or  not  this  secret 
organization  which  he  and  Burrington  had  run 
down  was  in  any  way  in  league  with  that  diaboli 
cal  attempt  at  Josephine's  life.  For  despite  his 
skepticism,  there  lurked,  .down  deep  in  his  heart, 
the  awful  fear  that  what  Burrington  believed 
might  be  true,  after  all. 

There  was  a  sudden,  sharp  report,  and  a  bullet 
went  hurtling  by  him  with  an  ominous  sing  and 
hiss.  Though  untouched,  he  dropped,  grateful 
to  the  kindly  darkness  that  made  a  man  prone  on 
mother  earth  of  little  worth  as  a  target.  He  lay 
perfectly  still  for  a  moment,  wondering  what 
effect  the  unexpected  shot  would  have  upon  the 
White  Slave,  but  trusting  to  his  good  judgment 
not  to  squeal  regardless  of  any  little  gun  play 
there  might  be.  Or  had  the  boy  already  told? 
Perhaps,  nay  probably,  this  was  the  arch-thief 
of  all  and  the  boy's  fear  of  his  master  had  been 

[202] 


HONOR  AMONG   THIEVES 

stronger  than  his  promises  to  Jack.  He  had  as 
yet  seen  nothing,  but  the  shot  had  come  from  the 
direction  of  the  barn,  so  that  he  was  between  the 
enemy  and  the  house.  It  was  a  good  advantage. 
The  gods  had  surely  been  with  him  this  night. 
He  strained  his  sight  houseward.  If  the  outlaw 
knew  that  his  comrades  were  prisoners  there,  he 
might  not  readily  accept  an  opportunity  for 
escape.  Their  brotherhood  was  a  right  loyal  one. 
If  he  knew!  Did  he  know?  Jack  began  creep 
ing  back  toward  the  house.  Suddenly,  a  stream 
of  light  poured  out  into  the  night  as  the  door  was 
unexpectedly  opened  and  the  White  Slave 
stumbled  into  the  kitchen.  But  his  was  not  the 
only  figure  thus  revealed.  In  the  outer  circle  of 
light  loomed  up  the  sinister  outlines  of  a  man  to 
whose  greedy  gaze  stood  now  unveiled  the  pic 
ture  of  the  whole  situation  and  he  saw  with 
understanding.  But  Jack  saw,  too,  and  compre 
hended  more  quickly  because  there  was  nothing 
in  it  new  to  him  but  the  figure  daubed  on  in  the 
foreground,  so  that  while  there  were  two  ex 
plosions,  his  was  first  and  went  home,  while  the 
second  went  far  astray  and  was  lost.  It  was 
thus  Jack  fulfilled  his  obligation  to  the  White 
Slave.  He  did  not  doubt  that  the  outlaw's 

[203] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

bullet  was  meant  to  end  the  life  of  the  child  who 
had  told. 

"You've  got  us,  Carroll,"  said  the  last  captive, 
lying  white  and  spent  upon  Dave  Myers's  bed, 
after  his  enemy  had  stanched  the  flow  of  blood 
from  his  shoulder.  "Now  what  are  you  goin'  to 
do  with  us?" 

"I  don't  know  you,  although  you  are  pretty 
familiar  with  my  name,"  said  Jack,  gravely. 
"Did  you  know  that  your  den  had  been  raided?" 

"I  sort  o'  suspected,"  said  the  man,  with  a 
sour  grin,  "when  I  made  out  your  slim  shanks 
comin'  towards  me.  So  when  I  missed  you,  I 
made  for  the  house  just  to  investigate  sort  o',  you 
know.  I  did  n't  know  then  that  I'd  missed  you 
plum  but  I  was  afraid  to  go  very  close  to  you 
for  fear  you  were  playin'  'possum.  Good  Lord! 
If  I'd  a  only  knowed  there  was  only  you,  a 
scrawny,  white-livered,  stiff  collar  feller!  A 
tenderfoot!  A  milk  and  honey  boy!  Damn!  I 
supposed  o'  course  Tom  Burrington  was  in  here 
and  a  whole  carload  o'  off'cers.  I  thought  I'd 
peek  in  at  the  winder  and  see  what  was  goin'  on 
when  the  kid  here  saved  me  the  trouble  by  openin' 
the  door."  He  glared  at  the  cowering  boy, 
malevolently. 

[204] 


HONOR  AMONG   THIEVES 

"What  made  you,  kid?"  asked  Jack,  gravely. 

"I  was  afraid  o'  the  shootin',"  said  the»White 
Slave,  whimpering.  "I  wanted  to  get  under  the 
bed.  But  I  did  n't  tell  on  you,  honest  I  did  n't." 

"Well,  never  mind.  There  is  just  the  one 
thing  that  I  want  to  know  of  you,"  said  Jack, 
turning  once  more  to  the  wounded  man,  "the  rest 
you  had  better  keep  to  tell  to  the  officers;  but 
what  I  want  to  know  won't  keep." 

"Fire  ahead." 

"Is  Frank  LaDue  mixed  up  in  this  affair?" 

"That 's  none  o'  your  business,"  responded  the 
prisoner,  insolently. 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  me,"  said  Jack,  ear 
nestly,  "and  tell  me  now  —  to-night.  It  is  a 
matter  of  life  or  death.  Where  is  he  now  and 
how  does  he  work?" 

The  man  laughed. 

"That 's  easy.  I  don't  know  where  he  is  now 
and  he  works  like  —  a  coward." 

"Was  he  with  you  to-night?" 

"Now,  look  here,  young  feller;  nobody  's  been 
infringin'  on  your  property  rights,  have  they? 
Why  don't  you  wait  until  your  own  ox  is  gored?" 

"  Somebody  certainly  has  been  infringing  upon 
my  property  rights,  but  leaving  that  out  of  the 

[205] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

question  now,  what  I  must  know  to-night  is,  as 
I  told  you  before,  a  matter  of  life  or  death." 

"Well,  then,  you  can  stop  pesterin'  yourself 
about  that.  Everybody  knows  that  Frank  La- 
Due  's  a  coward.  And  after  to-night,  I  can  tell 
him  he  'd  better  be  a-takin'  some  notice  o'  you 
instead  o'  countin'  so  much  on  intimidatin'  you. 
You  need  never  worry  about  him  shootin', 
though.  He'd  be  afraid  o'  the  dark  afterwards. 
I'm  only  tellin'  you  what  everybody  knows.  But 
he  's  a  great  bluffer,  Frank  LaDue  is.  He  might 
plug  your  keyhole,  for  instance,  but  he'd  never 
follow  it  up.  He  steals  from  small  owners  and 
homesteaders  and  Injuns.  He  ain't  got  the 
courage  to  tackle  big  concerns  —  usually.  The 
Injuns  hate  him  like  pizen  and  I  look  for  trouble 
now  most  any  day  in  that  direction,  and  so  far 
as  I  can  read  human  nature,  he  don't  love  you 
none,  nor  that  Seven-up  fellow,  neither.  But  if 
he  has  ever  worked  with  me  in  anything  you  will 
never  know  it.  The  law's  got  me  at  last  but  I 
reckon  I  can  keep  my  mouth  shut  about  other 
fellers.  Are  you  satisfied?  I  wouldn't  have 
talked  half  so  much  to  any  other  man,  but  you  — 
are  such  a  comical  little  slim-shanks  to  make  such 
a  haul  as  three  big  lubbers  like  us.  I  can't  help 

[206] 


HONOR  AMONG  THIEVES 

laughin'  —  but  I'm  through  now."  He  closed 
his  mouth  stubbornly  and  turned  to  the  wall.  He 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  speak  again. 

The  next  morning,  early,  Tom  Burrington  re 
turned  unsuccessful  in  both  his  man  and  horse 
hunt.  Mingled  with  his  honest  admiration  of  his 
tenderfoot  friend's  fine  showing  for  his  night's 
work  was  much  astonishment  and  not  a  little 
chagrin.  The  two  men  started  at  once  for  West- 
over  with  their  prisoners,  where  the  latter  were 
given  into  the  keeping  of  the  deputy  marshal. 
They  waived  examination  before  the  United 
States  Commissioner,  were  bound  over  to  appear 
at  the  next  regular  term  of  the  United  States 
Court  at  Deadwood,  and  then  Tom  and  Jack  and 
the  little  White  Slave  drove  the  stolen  band  of 
horses  home.  The  real  quest  of  both  men  had 
been  in  vain.  This  thought  stayed  with  Tom 
throughout  all  the  long,  dusty  way,  that  a  thou 
sand  horses  gone  astray  could  not  have  taken  him 
so  far  from  Josephine  in  her  hour  of  danger  had 
he  not  been  so  sure  that  he  was  about  Josephine's 
business.  One  of  the  outlaws  had  said  that  La- 
Due  was  too  much  of  a  coward  to  shoot.  Was 
not  shooting  a  coward's  game? 


[207] 


CHAPTER    XIII 


"VTOTHING  of  an  unusual  nature  had  occurred 
during  the  absence  of  the  two  men.  Tom's 
mother,  acting  upon  an  earnest  hint  from  her  big, 
gray-eyed  son  who  had  grown  so  much  more 
thoughtful  and  reserved  in  the  year  that  was  just 
past,  and  who,  since  two  short  days  ago,  had 
grown  infinitely  older,  had  contrived  to  keep  her 
guest  contented  within  doors  most  of  the  time  — 
an  act  deserving  of  much  credit,  for  the  girl  loved 
with  a  great  love  the  wide  outdoors. 

"We  spent  such  a  lazy  day  yesterday,"  con 
fessed  Josephine,  smilingly.  "First  we  made 
gingerbread  men,  Louis  and  I,  a  whole  battalion, 
thanks  to  Mrs.  Burrington,  who  was  generous 
with  the  dough.  Then  we  sewed  and  sang  and 
read  and  talked  about  you  when  you  were  a 
little  boy,  and  about  Jack  when  he  was  a  little 
boy,  and  about  Louis  when  he  was  a  little  — 
baby ;  and  this  morning,  —  now  what  do  you 
suppose  we  did  this  morning?  " 

"I  never  could  guess,"  said  Tom,  wondering 

[208] 


THE  TRAGEDY 

how  he  ever  thought  for  a  moment  that  Jose 
phine  ought  to  go  away  when  here  in  his  house 
by  the  side  of  his  stately,  gray-haired  mother,  she 
was  so  safe  and  merry  and  seemingly  content  — 
so  dear  a  household  spirit.  Could  not  he,  Tom 
Burrington,  accounted  in  the  range  country  a 
man  of  more  than  ordinary  strength  both  physical 
and  of  the  will,  protect  and  hold  what  was  his 
own?  He  laughed,  looking  at  her  thus,  to  think 
that  he  had  ever  thought  that  he  could  let  her 
go.  She  should  come  to  his  house  and  to  him  and 
then  let  all  the  world  watch  out. 

"Don't  tell,  Josephine,"  urged  Louis.  "He 
does  n't  deserve  to  know.  He'll  just  let  'em 
freeze  again." 

"Why,  you  have  told  yourself,  chum,"  laughed 
Josephine,  merrily.  "Besides,  anybody  could 
tell  by  the  sunburn  on  your  nose  and  the  freckles 
on  mine  that  we  had  been  out  in  the  sun  all  the 
morning.  Well,  I  will  tell  you,  though,  as  Louis 
says,  you  do  not  either  of  you  deserve  to  know. 
While  your  mother  was  getting  those  pretty  slips 
ready  to  take  the  place  of  the  plants  that  froze 
last  Winter  all  on  account  of  somebody's  unap- 
preciative  carelessness,  Louis  and  I  went  down 
to  our  garden  and  hoed  potatoes  all  the  morning 

[209] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

and  weeded  the  onion  bed,  and  if  you  do  not  think 
of  me  and  of  my  poor  blistered  hands  every  time 
you  taste  a  potato  of  the  future,  you  will  be  an 
ungrateful  wretch  and  we  shall  never  forgive  you, 
shall  wre,  Louis?" 

"I  do  not  see  any  blisters,  my  fine  lady,"  said 
Tom,  interestedly.  "I  have  you.  You  wore 
gloves.  She  did  —  didn't  she,  Louis?" 

"Ask  her.  How  should  I  know?"  said  the 
boy,  loyally.  "  Do  you  expect  a  fellow  to  be 
for  always  on  the  look-out  to  see  whether  his 
women-folks  wear  gloves  or  not  ?  Life  's  too 
short." 

"I  should  think  that  you  could  see  for  your 
self,"  said  Josephine,  holding  out  her  hands  for 
inspection.  They  were  not  very  large  hands  and 
they  were  very  white,  and  Tom,  not  daring  to 
touch  them,  but  feeling  the  hot  blood  burn  his 
face  with  the  desire  of  it,  asked  abruptly: 

"You  didn't  go  down  to  the  far  garden,  did 

you?" 

"You  bet  we  did,"  said  Louis,  stoutly. 
"  Charlie  Mason  has  n't  been  able  to  do  a  thing 
down  there  and  it  needed  fixin'  mighty  bad.  So 
Josephine  and  I  worked  down  there  all  the  morn 
ing  and  this  afternoon  I'm  going  to  teach  her 

[210] 


THE  TRAGEDY 

to  shoot  my  rifle  to  pay  her  for  working  in  my 
garden." 

"I  couldn't  help  it,  Tom,"  explained  the 
mother,  apologetically,  as  she  saw  the  sternness 
creeping  over  the  handsome  face.  "She  would 
go  this  morning  in  spite  of  me.  They  took  hold 
of  hands,  the  silly  children,  and  just  ran  away 
from  me.  I  could  not  go  myself  because  I  did 
not  know  where  they  went,  and  besides,  I  had 
bread  in  the  oven." 

"Why  should  I  not  go  to  the  garden?"  asked 
Josephine,  in  troubled  surprise. 

And  Tom,  looking  long  and  deep  into  her 
clear,  questioning  eyes,  did  not  dare  to  tell  her 
why.  The  shadow  of  a  great  unrest  fell  over  his 
face.  He  wished  in  that  moment  that  he  had 
asked  her  of  Jack,  yesterday,  down  by  the  wood 
pile —  was  it  only  yesterday?  —  when  the  words 
of  his  great  desire  had  trembled  upon  his  lips 
and  would  have  been  spoken  had  he  not  choked 
them  back  because  he  knew  so  well  that  Jack 
wrould  never  give  her  up  while  this  mysterious  evil 
menaced  her.  But  perhaps  if  he  had  tried  hard 
enough,  he  might  have  convinced  Jack  of  the 
entire  wisdom  of  such  a  course.  He  wished  he 
had  tried.  He  wished  he  had  spoken  to  Jack  on 

[211] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

the  way  home  from  Westover.  Jack  almost  be 
lieved  what  the  horse-thief  had  said  about  La- 
Due  's  art  of  bluffing.  Yet  he  had  known  that  it 
would  not  be  worth  while  to  speak,  then,  because, 
while  Jack  almost  believed  the  horse-thief's 
rough  reading  of  the  islander's  character  and 
intentions,  he  did  not  believe  it  —  altogether,  and 
Tom  knew  that  Jack  Carroll  would  never  listen 
to  his  or  any  man's  suit  until  the  question  was 
settled  one  way  or  the  other.  He  might  even, 
and  probably  would,  only  bring  about  a  loss  of 
fellowship  by  his  undue  haste.  He  knew  all  of 
this  well,  and  yet  —  if  Jack  only  would!  Yes, 
why  not?  Why  should  Josephine  not  go  to  the 
garden  —  to  his  garden?  If  she  could  not,  if  the 
very  thought  of  it  brought  the  cold  damp  to  his 
forehead,  then  indeed  was  the  time  come  when  she 
must  go  away.  His  dream  had  been  the  idle 
dream  of  a  fool's  paradise. 

"There  is  no  reason  at  all  why  you  should  not 
go,"  he  answered,  quietly,  "except  that  a  regular 
den  of  rattle-snakes  infests  that  locality.  You 
must  promise  me  that  you  will  never  go  away 
down  there  alone." 

"I  should  think  that  it  would  be  a  very  simple 
matter  to  kill  all  those  rattle-snakes,"  said  Jose 
fs  12] 


THE   TRAGEDY 

phine,  unsuspiciously.  "If  I  were  a  man,  I 
should  do  it.  I  should  think  you  would  be  afraid 
for  Louis.  What  with  wolves  and  rattle-snakes, 
I  very  plainly  foresee  an  exciting,  if  hampered, 
future  for  Josephine  Carroll.  Yes,  I  promise,  if 
you  will  trust  Louis  and  his  gun  to  me  this  after 
noon,"  she  bargained.  "He  complains  that  the 
stern,  elder  brother  never  lets  him  take  his  gun 
out  unless  attended  by  this  same  tyrant.  I  will 
send  him  safely  home  in  the  morning.  Is  it  a 
bargain?" 

"It  is  a  bargain,"  agreed  Tom. 

Shortly  after  noon  of  that  same  day,  having 
first  sent  the  White  Slave  out  with  the  cattle, 
Jack  was  planting  and  harrowing  corn  in  a  field 
long  neglected  because  of  his  inability  to  get  help. 
He  kept  doggedly  at  the  task  all  through  the 
long,  hot  afternoon,  while  Josephine  and  her 
young  guest  amused  themselves  near  by  with 
shooting  at  humps  of  turned-over  sod  for  targets, 
or  bunches  of  soap-weed.  Sometimes  they  tried 
their  luck  at  a  flock  of  visiting  blackbirds,  having 
no  intention  of  really  hitting  anything  that  was 
alive.  Indeed,  they  would  have  been  sorely  re 
morseful  had  a  feathered  and  make-belief  target 
inadvertently  fallen.  At  least,  Josephine  would 

[213] 


have  been,  and  the  boy  was  bound  in  honor  to 
support  the  views  of  his  pretty  young  hostess  on 
this  day  when  he  was  not  only  her  guest  but  her 
sworn  protector  as  well.  Tom  had  said  so  and 
it  meant  something  when  Tom  spoke.  How  he 
listened  and  longed  for  the  warning  rattle  of  a 
snake  so  that  he  might  prove  his  position  as  not 
honorary  only,  but  urgently  active  as  well.  He 
even  threshed  through  the  prairie  grass  with  his 
chubby  and  rubber-booted  legs  in  the  vain  hope 
of  surprising  the  enemy  in  his  lair,  never  dream 
ing  of  failure  to  kill. 

When  the  shadows  of  the  trees  had  stretched 
themselves  near  halfway  across  the  river,  when 
the  sun  hung  over  the  western  hills  and  shone 
with  a  yellower  light,  when  the  frogs  began 
chanting  their  raucous  monotones,  when  the 
meadow  lark's  liquid  notes  had  taken  on  a  plain 
tive  tone  and  the  "bob  white"  of  the  quail,  calling 
to  his  brooding  mate,  came  sleepily  from  grass 
coverts,  and  the  soft,  heart-breaking  lament  of 
the  mourning  dove  floated  with  penetrating 
sweetness  from  the  depths  of  the  island  forest, 
when,  if  one  listened,  one  could  hear  the  deep, 
steady  push  of  the  river,  Josephine  waved  a 
cheery  good-bye  to  the  laborer  in  the  field,  who 

[214] 


THE   TRAGEDY 

held  his  hat  high  to  honor  the  passing  of  the  blue- 
ginghamed  figure,  held  out  her  hand  to  the  boy, 
and  the  two  strolled  leisurely  homeward  to  pre 
pare  the  evening  meal  for  the  man  who  must 
work  while  yet  there  was  light. 

"I  am  tired,  Josephine,  dead  tired,"  said  Jack, 
after  supper.  He  sat  down  on  the  threshold  and 
leaned  his  head  wearily  against  the  door-casing. 
It  was  a  characteristic  attitude  of  his  that  Spring 
and  Summer  when  he  was  tired  or  thoughtful. 
His  eyes  were  lifted  to  the  hilltops,  as  they  had 
so  often  been  before,  where  the  light  yet  lingered, 
although  dusk  had  come  to  the  valley. 

"Poor  boy,"  comforted  Josephine.  "You 
work  far  too  hard.  It  was  n't  fair  of  Mr.  Bur- 
rington  to  keep  you  up  all  last  night,  either.  Was 
it,  Louis?" 

"No,  I  suppose  not,  only  I  do  wish  I  had  been 
there,  too,"  sighed  the  boy.  "Gee!  Maybe  Jack 
would  have  let  me  take  their  guns  away  from  'em, 
—  maybe.  What  '11  you  bet  ?  Would  n't  you, 
Jack?  Because  there  was  n't  a  speck  of  danger. 
You  had  the  drop  on  'em  all  the  time,  you  know." 

"But  where  the  fun  without  any  danger  at 
all?"  laughed  Jack. 

"Well,  of  course,"  qualified  the  boy,   "they 

[215] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

might  have  drawn  so  quickly  as  to  hurt  me  even 
if  you  had  killed  'em  afterwards.  Say,  Jack,  I 
wish  you'd  let  me  work  for  you.  I'm  a  bully 
hand  at  makin'  garden  and  tendin'  to  stock. 
You  just  ask  Tom.  And  I  could  learn  to  plough 
and  cultivate  corn  and  things.  I'd  love  to. 
Maybe  if  you  needed  me,  and  Josephine,  too, 
mummy  would  let  me  stay  out  here  all  Winter. 
I  hate  to  go  back  to  that  old  Chicago  and  that 
old  school  now  that  I  know  you  and  Josephine. 
Josephine  makes  the  best  biscuits  I  ever  ate  in 
my  life.  Mummy  says  it 's  because  she  was  born 
in  the  South.  She  says  you  get  a  knack  by  being 
born  down  there.  I  wish  our  old  cook  had  gone 
down  there  to  be  born.  Josephine,  are  you  going 
to  have  sour  milk  batter  cakes  for  breakfast? 
I  like  'em  even  better  than  biscuits  for  breakfast 
—  when  you  make  'em,"  he  concluded,  diplo 
matically. 

"Thanks,  old  chap,"  said  Jack,  a  laugh  in  his 
eyes,  "but  now  that  I  have  the  White  Slave  to 
help  around,  I  won't  need  your  labor.  However, 
you  are  dead  welcome  to  stay  here  all  the  time 
if  you  like.  By  the  way,  I  wonder  what  keeps 
the  boy?  It 's  away  past  milking  time.  Any 
mail,  Josephine?" 

[216] 


THE   TRAGEDY 

"Lots  of  it,"  said  Josephine,  interestedly. 
"  The  home  papers,  and  letters,  too,  and  the  mag 
azines,  and  I  have  n't  read  a  word.  Was  n't  I 
good  to  wait  for  you?  Charlie  Mason,  that 
Seven-up  cowboy,  you  know,  went  to  town  early 
this  morning  and  he  said  he  would  bring  our  mail. 
Shall  I  light  the  lamp  and  read  the  news  to  you?" 

"Please,"  said  Jack,  yawning.  "It  seems  a 
shame  to  have  a  light  this  fine  evening,  but  we 
shall  have  to  have  the  news,  I  suspect." 

Josephine  arose,  lighted  a  lamp,  set  it  upon 
the  table,  leisurely  drew  up  a  chair,  sat  down  and 
slipped  a  finger  through  the  wrapping  of  a  news 
paper.  Opposite,  chin  in  hand,  elbows  on  the 
table,  sat  the  boy  Louis,  prepared  to  give  his 
earnest  attention  to  the  reading  of  the  news  of 
a  far-away  country. 

"Do  you  want  to  do  something  for  me  first, 
Louis?"  asked  Jack.  "Just  bring  me  a  basin  of 
cold  water,  will  you?  My  poor  feet  burn  like 
sixty.  They  are  not  exactly  at  home  yet  in  plough 
shoes  —  never  mind,  Jo,  don't  look  so  overcome. 
A  better  time  is  coming.  Anyway,  they'll  get 
used  to  it.  It  is  only  a  question  of  time  when 
my  pretty  feet  won't  have  even  a  bowing  ac 
quaintance  with  a  calf  and  will  be  too  calloused 

[217] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

even  for  reminiscence.  This  is  a  world  of  adap 
tability,  you  know,"  he  went  on,  with  his  old, 
whimsical  smile.  "You  are  a  good  boy,  Louis. 
Thank  you.  Gee!  That  feels  good!  Drink  it 
in,  poor  feet,  for  you  have  to  go  again  to-morrow. 
Fire  ahead,  Jo.  So  the  old  place  is  to  be  sold 
again.  I  thought  Uncle  Geoffrey  would  have  to 
do  that  sooner  or  later.  I  would  not  go  back, 
though,  for  all  the  world,  would  you,  Jo?  This 
is  a  right  glorious  country  and  we  are  here  to 
stay.  Heigho,  but  I  am  tired!" 

He  clasped  his  hands  behind  his  head  as  he 
had  done  that  night  when  he  found  Onjijitka 
sitting  late  with  Josephine.  There  was  a  sudden, 
sharp  report,  a  piercing  scream,  darkness,  and 
the  slim,  tired  body  of  John  Calhoun  Carroll,  late 
a  gentleman  of  Carolina,  sank  softly  to  the  floor, 
while  without  many  stars  began  to  twinkle  in  the 
darkening  sky,  and  drearily  across  the  quiet 
country  came  the  yelping  of  the  coyotes. 

"Josephine!    I  am  shot!" 

It  was  the  boy  who  spoke,  a  great  horror  in 
his  breaking  voice. 

"Where,  dear?  Do  not  be  afraid,"  called 
Josephine,  soothingly,  as  she  groped  her  way 
around  the  table  and  took  the  rigid  little  figure 

[218] 


THE   TRAGEDY 

in  her  arms.  "Where,  dearie,  where  are  you 
hurt?" 

"I  don't  know,  Josephine,"  sobbed  the  boy, 
clinging  to  her  in  a  passion  of  uncontrollable  ter 
ror.  "It  came  through  the  window." 

"But  when  you  screamed,  where  did  it  hurt 
you  ?  Jack,  why  do  you  not  come  ?  Our  boy  has 
been  shot.  Oh,  Louis,  you  must  tell  me  where 
you  are  hurt.  I  cannot  find  a  match.  Jack! 
Jack!" 

No  answer  broke  the  hush  that  followed  this 
passionate  appeal. 

"Why,  dear  boy,"  said  Josephine,  then,  in  a 
sweet,  strained  voice,  "you  are  not  hurt  at  all. 
It  is  Jack.  Do  not  sob  so.  I  tell  you  it  is  Jack. 
Do  you  not  see?  Jack  does  not  move.  He  is 
there  by  the  door.  I  must  shut  that  door  or 
they  will  shoot  him  again."  She  rose  to  her  feet 
unsteadily,  supporting  herself  with  her  hand 
on  the  table.  "  Come,  Louis,  we  must  shut  the 
door." 

"It  came  through  the  window,  Josephine," 
repeated  the  boy. 

"But  I  must  shut  the  door,"  persisted  Jose 
phine. 

Very  quietly  she  slipped  forward,  very  quietly 

[219] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

put  her  arms  around  the  shoulders  of  the  boyish 
figure  lying  there  so  still,  and  gently  lifted  it 
wholly  within,  so  that  the  bare  white  feet  of  him 
who  had  gone  no  longer  rested  upon  the  cold, 
hard  stone  of  the  doorway  —  those  bare,  white 
feet  that  never  again  would  follow  the  unac 
customed  harrow,  or  be  bruised  by  the  harsh 
leather  of  plough  shoes.  It  is  a  glorious  country, 
poor  Jack,  but  the  price  of  it  was  many  a  fair 
young  life  like  yours  and  many  a  heart-ache  like 
Josephine's.  When  Josephine  had  closed  the 
door  softly,  she  crept  back  to  the  boy. 

"Get  your  rifle,"  she  whispered.  "He  is  down 
at  the  woodpile  —  I  saw  him  —  and  I  know  him 
—  he  will  kill  you,  too,  and  me,  Louis,  if  we  do 
not  kill  him  first.  Quick!" 

"Is  Jack  — " 

"Yes,  dear,  Jack  is  dead,"  she  said,  in  a 
strange,  quiet  voice.  "Get  your  gun  so  that  we 
may  kill  that  man  out  there,  and  then  go  for 
help." 

Help!  It  was  the  slogan  that  sounded  the 
rally  to  Tom  Burrington's  brother.  It  was  then 
that  his  sturdy  little  soul,  so  peculiarly  akin  to 
that  of  the  elder  brother,  leaped  from  the  shackles 
of  its  own  fear  and  never  again,  throughout  all 

[220] 


THE   TRAGEDY 

the  long  watches  of  that  night  of  terror,  did  he 
fail  this  girl  whom  Tom  loved. 

"Let  me  shoot,  Josephine,"  he  said,  biting  his 
lips  desperately  in  his  effort  to  keep  them  steady. 
'  You  don't  know  how,  and  besides  it 's  a  man's 
work.  No,  Josephine,  we  must  n't  have  a  light. 
They  saw  too  plainly  before.  They  shot  through 
the  window,  you  know." 

But  Josephine  took  the  rifle  from  the  small 
hands  that  would  have  clung  to  it,  saying  simply : 

"I  must  do  it.  Jack  would  if  he  could — but 
he  cannot  —  so  I  must.  I  promised  Tom  to  take 
care  of  you." 

She  crept  again  to  the  door,  opened  it  slightly, 
turned  the  unaccustomed  weapon  toward  the 
dark  blur  of  the  woodpile,  and  fired.  The  gun 
dropped  from  her  nerveless  hands  to  the  floor. 

"  He  was  n't  there,  Louis,"  she  said,  pitifully. 
"He  is  hiding  somewhere.  We  shall  have  to  stay 
until  he  goes  away." 

She  felt  for  a  match,  found  one  at  last  and 
lighted  the  lamp,  which  smoked  distressingly, 
with  its  chimney  scattered  in  fragments  over  the 
table  and  floor.  The  quick-witted  boy  hastily 
drew  the  blinds  close  and  then  Josephine,  sitting 
upon  the  floor,  took  upon  her  lap  the  head  of  the 

[221] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

boy  that  was  dead.  In  the  half  light,  his  face 
was  serene  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  smiled.  It  was 
a  brave  soul  that  had  said  he  was  here  to  stay, 
and  now  —  he  was  already  gone.  But  he  had  left 
in  his  stead  the  grace  of  a  smile,  half  humorous, 
wholly  accepting,  of  one  who,  however  unex 
pectedly,  had  met  and  known  and  rebelled  not 
weakly  against  the  master  of  all  the  world  — 
death.  But  if  death  be  the  master  of  all  the 
world,  why,  then,  as  Josephine  gazed  on  the  still 
face  in  that  solemn  hour,  that  haunting  air  of 
mysterious  triumph  around  the  boyish  mouth? 
Was  it  that,  beyond  the  world,  death  had  met  its 
master? 

Josephine  had  no  will  to  do  aught  but  look 
upon  that  face  as  the  time  dragged  heavily  away. 
There  was  nothing  else  in  all  the  world  but  Jack, 
and  now  that  he  was  gone,  what  did  anything 
matter?  Only  she  was  very  glad  that  she  had 
worn  gloves  in  the  garden  that  morning  because 
now  her  hands  were  soft  to  touch  the  smooth 
white  forehead  —  very  white  at  the  edge  of  the 
thick  brown  hair,  but  shading  into  tan  above  the 
closed  eyes.  Rosebud  was  coming  to-morrow  for 
a  visit  and  she  wondered  idly  what  the  Indian 
girl  would  say  when  she  came  to  the  ranch  of  the 

[222] 


THE   TRAGEDY 

Broken  Key  and  knocked,  and  there  would  be 
no  one  to  say,  "Come  in."  For  of  course  she, 
Josephine,  would  be  killed  before  morning.  If 
not,  Jack  would  come  back  for  her.  He  would 
never  leave  his  little  sister  alone  —  never.  She 
could  trust  Jack.  Would  Onji,  as  Jack  loved 
to  call  her,  open  the  door  and  enter  unbidden? 
Yes,  for  the  key  was  broken  and  any  one  could 
come  in  who  wanted  to.  There  would  be  no  one 
to  keep  any  one  out  anyway  —  to-morrow.  Poor 
little  Rosebud!  It  would  be  very  lonely  for  her 
in  the  time  to  come.  There  would  be  nowhere 
for  her  to  go,  any  more,  to  have  change  from  the 
slothful  life  in  the  home  of  Two  Hawks.  She 
would  go  back  to  the  Dakotahs  and  never  try 
to  be  white  any  more.  But  why  not?  It  was 
such  a  lonesome  world  without  one 's  own  people. 
She,  Josephine,  could  not  bear  it  alone,  so  she 
was  going  back  to  her  own  —  Jack  was  coming 
for  her  pretty  soon  now  —  so  why  should  not 
poor,  lonely,  passionate,  striving,  slighted  Rose 
bud  go  back  and  stay  with  her  own?  Two 
Hawks  was  a  very  good  man,  and  nothing  mat 
ters  in  all  the  world  but  one's  own.  Everything 
else  is  emptiness.  One  finds  that  out  when  one 
comes  to  die.  But  Rosebud  would  be  very  lonely 

[223] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

for  a  while.  Generous-hearted  Jack  had  been 
good  to  her,  and  she  had  tried  to  be,  too.  Would 
she  cry?  No,  that  was  not  her  nature.  She 
would  just  steal  away  again  softly  and  go  to  the 
Seven-up,  maybe,  and  then  Tom  would  come  and 
he  was  so  big  and  strong  that  he  would  just  pick 
them  both  up  and  lay  them  on  the  bed  and  then 
he  would  wonder  where  Louis  was  —  why,  where 
was  Louis? 

And  then  it  wras  as  if  Josephine's  heart  really 
broke,  for  she  knew  that  she  could  not  stay  there 
any  longer  with  the  dear  body  of  Jack;  that  she 
must  no  longer  sit  there  and  wait  for  Jack  to 
come  back.  She  knew  that  she  must  arise  and 
go  to  the  little  boy  who  was  so  bravely  quiet,  but 
over  whose  sensitive  young  face  hung  the  gray 
shadow  of  an  awful  horror.  She  laid  the  dear 
head  upon  the  floor  and  stood  up,  pressing  her 
hands  just  once  against  her  eyes,  where  hot  tears 
had  sprung  because  the  floor  was  so  hard.  Then 
she  asked,  steadily : 

"Is  he  gone,  Louis?" 

"I  don't  know,  Josephine.  I  have  not  heard 
anything,"  he  answered,  his  heart  leaping  at  the 
sound  of  a  human  voice  again. 

"One  of  us  will  have  to  go  and  one  of  us  will 
[224] 


THE   TRAGEDY 

have  to  stay,"  said  Josephine,  in  even,  con 
strained  tones.  "Which  would  you  rather  do, 
go  or  stay?" 

"I  don't  care,  Josephine,  honest.  Which 
would  you  rather  do?" 

"I  do  not  know  what  to  do.  I  cannot  leave 
you  and  I  cannot  send  you."  Her  voice  died 
away  drearily. 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  Jack,"  fabricated  the  boy, 
"and  I  am  not  afraid  to  go,  either.  Maybe  the 
man  is  gone." 

Josephine  shook  her  head. 

"No,  dear,"  she  said,  resolutely,  though  often 
the  sweet  voice  broke,  "we'll  both  go.  Jack  is 
dead.  They  can  do  nothing  more  to  him.  I 
promised  to  take  care  of  you,  so  we'll  go  to 
gether,  you  and  I." 

With  something  to  do,  a  sad  courage  and 
strength  had  come  back  to  her.  She  did  not  look 
again  at  the  quiet  form,  but  hurriedly  blew  out 
the  smoking  light,  took  firm  hold  of  Louis'  rifle, 
and  held  out  her  hand  to  the  boy. 

'*  We  must  climb  out  of  the  bedroom  window," 
she  said. 

"But  he  shot  through  there,"  remonstrated  the 
boy,  who  was  never  to  forget  the  awfulness  of 

[225] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

that  shot  through  the  window  when  the  bullet 
had  whistled  past  him  so  close  that  he  thought 
it  had  found  him. 

"I  know,  but  I  saw  the  man  afterwards  down 
by  the  woodpile,  so  we  cannot  go  by  the  door," 
decided  Josephine.  "Come  into  the  bedroom. 
We  will  get  out  at  that  window." 

Noiselessly,  they  crept  to  the  bedroom  window, 
raised  it  softly,  and  peered  out.  It  was  very 
dark  —  so  dark  that  Josephine  caught  her  breath 
with  the  thought  of  daring  it.  The  air  was  still, 
warm,  oppressive,  and  hard  to  breathe.  A  storm 
was  coming.  They  heard  the  mutter  of  distant 
thunder  following  a  bright  flash  of  lightning  that 
showed  huge  masses  of  black  and  angry  clouds 
drifting  rapidly  up  from  the  west,  and  that  left 
the  hovering,  waiting  gloom  the  murkier  and  the 
more  insistent  because  of  the  brief  illumination. 
The  storm  would  break  soon.  They  must  hasten. 
A  new  thought  came  to  Josephine.  She  groped 
her  way  to  the  rude  closet,  felt  resolutely  among 
Jack's  belongings  until  she  found  coat  and 
trousers,  and  then  she  quickly  changed  her  own 
clothes  for  those  that  had  been  Jack's. 

"We  can  run  better,"  she  whispered,  "and  my 
skirt  will  not  always  be  catching  on  something, 

[226] 


THE   TRAGEDY 

and  maybe  they  will  be  afraid  of  me  because  they 
will  think  that  I  am  a  man." 

She  pushed  the  boy  gently  aside. 

"I  must  go  first,  chum,"  she  said. 

Ah,  God!  What  was  that?  Was  it  the 
guarded  snap  of  a  trigger  struck  into  place  for 
deadly  readiness?  And  had  the  faint  rustling 
of  the  grass  that  preceded  it  been  caused  by  the 
stealthy  haste  of  a  man  to  be  on  time?  There 
was  no  wind  to  disturb  the  grass.  Or  was  it  the 
first  sigh  of  the  storm?  She  climbed  frantically 
back  into  the  room,  shot  wildly  two  or  three  times 
out  of  the  window,  and  then,  panting  with  terror, 
leaned  against  the  wall. 

"We  shall  have  to  stay  all  night,"  she  said, 
chokingly.  "He  is  out  there.  He  won't  let 
us  get  away.  We  must  keep  shooting,  Louis, 
all  the  time.  We  must  never  stop.  We  must  let 
him  know  that  we  are  not  utterly  helpless  and  at 
his  mercy.  Have  you  lots  of  cartridges?  We 
must  not  waste  them.  We  must  put  some  aside 
for  —  an  emergency." 

They  did  keep  shooting  all  the  night  long,  just 
to  let  some  one  out  there  in  the  dark  and  the  storm 
know  that  they  were  not  utterly  helpless  and  at 
his  mercy  —  they,  a  stricken  girl  and  a  little  child, 

[227J 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

to  whom  the  wild,  electrical  storm  with  its  beat 
ing  rain  and  the  roar  and  crash  of  its  thunder 
came  like  heavy  cannonading  from  an  answering 
enemy.  They  shot  through  the  doorway,  through 
the  shattered  west  window,  through  the  bedroom 
window,  and  then  through  the  doorway  again, 
and  so  the  weary  round  —  twice  and  thrice  and 
countless  times,  till  the  first  creeping  gray  of  the 
early  dawn  outlined  the  hill  summits  and  the  tops 
of  the  taller  trees  on  the  island  while  the  valleys 
and  the  lower  thickets  remained  yet  a  menacing, 
haunted  blur  of  black.  Then  hand  in  hand  they 
watched  at  the  window.  The  storm  had  been 
brief,  though  furious,  and  had  long  since  died 
away.  When  the  near  thickets  began  faintly  but 
surely  to  show  form  and  substance  and  the  light 
of  the  eastern  hills  took  on  rose  tints,  Josephine 
led  the  boy  to  the  inner  room  and  made  him  lie 
down  to  rest  for  an  hour,  and  soon,  spent  with 
fear  and  fatigue,  he  slept.  But  Josephine  did 
not  sleep,  and  when  it  was  entirely  light  and 
there  was  no  one  to  be  seen  in  all  the  lonely 
land,  she  awakened  the  boy.  The  window  stood 
wide  open. 

"It  is  better  —  slip  through  this  way  and  run, 
dear  boy,  run.    You  must  not  be  afraid.    No  one 

[228] 


THE  TRAGEDY 

will  dare  hurt  you,  Tom  Burrington's  brother. 
It  is  day,  too.  Do  you  hear  me  ?  You  are  not  to 
be  afraid.  Now  go,  dear." 

"Poor  Josephine,"  said  Louis,  slipping  his 
arms  around  her  neck  for  a  quick  embrace.  "How 
white  you  are  and  how  tired !  I  will  run  all  the 
way,  so  it  won't  be  long.  Are  you  sure  that  you 
are  not  afraid?  Had  n't  I  better  stay?  " 

"Yes,  Louis,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Josephine, 
with  a  smile,  the  exceeding  pathos  of  which  the 
boy  never  forgot,  "but  I  am  more  afraid  to  go 
and  leave  you  —  and  we  cannot  go  together  now 
—  it  is  too  late.  You  must  not  be  seen  with  poor 
Josephine  Carroll  any  more,  for  she  is  Jack's 
sister,  you  know.  So  please  hurry,  won't  you, 
chum?" 

Closing  the  window  after  the  boy  as  he  slipped 
away  into  the  chill  of  the  early  morning,  Jose 
phine  crept  back  to  watch  by  Jack  alone. 


[229] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  NEXT  MORNING 

JOSEPHINE  was  tired.  A  deadly  weari 
ness  held  the  muscles  of  her  arms  and 
shoulders  in  a  thraldom  the  chains  of  which  the 
sight  of  the  murderer  himself  peering  in  at  the 
fatal  west  window  could  not  have  broken.  Those 
firm-fleshed  young  arms  had  done  well  when  the 
need  of  them  had  been  insistent;  when  all  night 
long,  death  had  sat  brooding  over  the  little  iso 
lated  house  in  the  valley.  But  with  the  cool  first 
light  of  the  June  morning  came  a  relaxation  of 
the  tense  muscles  and  a  strange  apathy  of  the 
brain  which  engendered  a  woful  loss  of  nerve 
force.  The  time  passed  unaccounted  for;  time 
during  which  Josephine,  sitting  on  the  floor, 
stared  dumbly  into  space ;  time  during  which  she 
could  not  have  lifted  a  hand  in  self-defence 
though  the  summons  had  left  her  no  alternative 
but  instant  death,  and  though  Louis'  rifle  lay 
close  to  her  feet ;  time  during  which  the  sun  swung 
higher  and  higher  up  into  the  deep  blue  of  the 
Dakota  sky,  and  the  mournful  low  of  the  milch 

[2  so] 


THE  NEXT  MORNING 

cows,  calling  Jack,  beat  distressfully  upon  her 
ears  although  she  heard  it  not  for  what  it  meant. 

Finally  she  arose,  mechanically  changed  her 
clothes,  and  resumed  her  position  upon  the  floor. 
She  was  sitting  thus  when  Tom  came.  She 
heard  nothing  of  the  hoof  beats  on  the  sod,  noth 
ing  of  the  clamor  of  that  wild  ride  nor  the  heavy 
breathing  of  the  hard-ridden  horse  dragged  to  a 
stand-still,  without  the  hint  of  a  slowing-down, 
so  that  when  the  door  was  thrown  open,  she 
shuddered  softly,  bewilderedly,  with  an  un 
reasoning  dread  of  supernatural  visitation. 

"Josephine!" 

Louis  had  told  him.  He  knew  that  he  should 
find  Jack  lying  there  dead  and  that  Josephine 
would  be  sitting  hopelessly  and  drearily  close  by. 
The  sadness  of  that  which  he  saw  now  with  his 
actual  eyes,  he  had  seen  with  his  inner  vision  all 
the  way  while  he  rode  like  the  wind,  triple-guised, 
a  saint  of  relief,  a  devil  of  vengeance,  justice  in 
carnate.  He  had  just  entered  the  living  room  for 
the  early  breakfast  which  prevailed  at  the  Seven- 
up  in  the  summer-time,  when  the  child,  utterly 
exhausted,  white  with  fatigue,  tear-streaked  and 
travel-stained,  stumbled  into  the  room  from  the 
front  entrance.  The  unspeakable  relief  which 

[231.1 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

the  sight  of  the  broad-shouldered,  flannel- shirted, 
keen-eyed,  self-confident  man  who  was  his  big 
brother  brought  to  the  sorely  tried  boy,  was  too 
much  for  his  self-control  and  he  began  to  sob 
abandonedly,  standing  by  the  door  and  making 
no  effort  to  come  further  within.  Tom  under 
stood  then  and  yet  he  stayed  a  moment  to  listen 
to  the  boy's  broken  story,  and  stayed  yet  a  mo 
ment  longer  to  put  the  child  in  his  mother's  arms, 
and  then,  nothing  short  of  Omnipotence  could 
have  stayed  him  longer.  Yet  all  he  could  say 
was,  "Josephine!"  He  repeated  it  helplessly, 
"Josephine!" 

"I  am  glad  it  is  you,"  said  Josephine,  in  a 
quiet  little  voice.  "I  did  not  hear  you  coming. 
Did  Louis  tell  you?" 

"Yes,  he  told  me,"  said  Tom,  huskily.  He 
strode  forward,  seized  the  cold  hands  in  his  warm 
clasp  and  lifted  her  strongly  to  her  feet. 

"Come,  Josephine,"  he  said,  almost  roughly. 
"You  must  not  sit  there  any  longer.  There  is  too 
much  to  do.  Have  you  had  any  breakfast?" 

She  shook  her  head  drearily  while  the  first  tears 
that  had  come  to  her  eyes  since  she  laid  Jack's 
head  on  the  hard  floor  stood  there  now  because 
she  could  not  understand  this  terrible  new 

[232] 


THE  NEXT  MORNING 

sternness  of  Tom's.  What  had  she  done  that  he 
should  speak  to  her  thus?  She  began  to  sob 
childishly.  She  had  thought  that  when  Tom  came 
much  of  her  trouble  would  be  over  because  he  was 
so  big  and  capable  —  he  would  help  her  to  bear  it 
—  and  instead,  he  was  scolding  her  —  and  why? 
Was  it  because  of  Louis? 

"I  did  n't  know  what  else  to  do,"  she  pleaded. 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  asked  Tom, 
sharply. 

"About  Louis,  you  know.  I  promised  you 
that  no  harm  should  come  to  him  and  I  did  try  to 
make  my  words  come  true.  But  I  could  not  leave 
him,  could  I  ?  I  thought  that  it  would  be  so  ter 
rible  for  a  little  child  to  stay  here  all  alone  with  — 
with  -  And  I  could  not  go  with  him  because 
they  would  have  killed  him,  too,  if  he  had  been 
seen  with  Jack's  sister.  So  I  let  him  go  alone.  I 
am  sorry.  I  did  not  mean  to  do  wrong." 

"Josephine,  if  you  do  not  keep  still,  you  will 
kill  me,"  said  Tom,  brokenly.  "I  thank  my  God 
that  you  were  not  alone.  I  shall  be  a  better  man 
always  for  this,  that  He  did  not  let  you  be  alto 
gether  alone  —  even  if  there  was  no  one  to  help 
you  but  a  little  child.  My  girl,  what  made  you 
think  of  such  a  monstrous  thing?" 

[233] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

"You  were  so  cross,"  she  said,  despondently. 

The  man  gripped  himself  hard.  She  seemed 
so  utterly  helpless  standing  there  by  the  unre 
sponsive  body  of  the  one  man  in  all  the  world  who 
had  authority  over  her,  so  young  and  fair  and 
sweet,  and  yet  because  of  her  great  sorrow,  so 
far  removed  from  his  lover's  touch,  that  he  must 
crucify  the  imperious  demands  of  his  whole  being 
to  crush  her  in  his  arms  and  comfort  her  there. 
Had  he  been  harsh  with  her?  If  he  had,  it  was 
because  of  the  fierce  longing  that  was  in  him, 
that  was  so  hard  to  control. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  be,"  he  said,  gently. 

"I  know  it,"  she  said,  smiling  sadly.  She  was 
stronger  now  and  knew  that  while  it  was  good  to 
have  him  there  and  that  he  would  know  how  to  do 
the  things  that  had  to  be  done,  yet  her  trouble  she 
must  bear  alone  —  forever.  She  knew  now  that 
there  was  no  other  way.  "  I  am  very  tired  and  I 
did  not  understand  just  for  a  minute.  Forgive 
me.  What  shall  I  do  now? " 

As  her  hint  of  a  cry  for  help  had  been  the 
younger  brother's  call  to  rally  last  night,  so 
Josephine's  complete  dependence  upon  him  made 
Tom  his  own  man  again  now.  Quietly  but  pur 
posefully  he  went  about  the  duty  that  lay  before 

[234] 


THE  NEXT  MORNING 

him.  Stepping  into  the  next  room,  he  robbed  the 
scarcely  disturbed  bed  of  its  upper  covering  and 
returning,  spread  it  reverently  over  the  body  of 
his  friend.  Then  searching  for  and  quickly  find 
ing  a  big  tin  cup,  he  left  the  house,  to  return 
shortly  with  the  cup  brimming  with  fresh  milk 
which  he  commanded  her  to  drink.  She  obeyed, 
too  weary  to  resist  his  dominant  will. 

"Now,  Josephine,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "I  shall 
have  to  leave  you  for  a  little  while.  Do  not 
worry.  I  shall  come  back  just  as  soon  as  I  can. 
It  will  not  take  me  long.  Do  not  leave  the  house. 
You  will  remember  that,  won't  you?  Do  not  be 
afraid  that  anything  will  happen  to  me.  I  will 
be  back  in  ten  minutes.  Do  you  understand? " 

Yes,  she  understood.  There  was  no  fear  but 
that  she  understood,  poor  Josephine. 

"Must  you  go?  Is  there  no  other  way?  Must 
I  be  left  alone  again?" 

He  put  his  arm  for  one  moment  around  the 
slight,  drooping  shoulders  while  she  read  the 
hard,  inevitable  truth  in  his  pitying  eyes,  and  then 
hastily  left  the  house. 

He  crossed  the  bed  of  the  slough  dry-shod, 
though  with  some  difficulty,  as  the  river  was  rap 
idly  rising,  and  went  directly  to  Frank  LaDue's 

[235] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

cabin  on  the  island.  There  was  no  one  there.  At 
least  no  one  responded  to  his  peremptory  sum 
mons.  He  had  not  thought  to  find  any  one  at 
home  and  yet  he  kept  one  hand  very  near  to  his 
pistol  belt  while  he  unceremoniously  thrust  open 
the  door  and  entered  unbidden.  Convinced  that 
the  house  was  deserted,  he  was  on  the  point  of 
leaving  when  something  over  by  the  bed  attracted 
his  attention.  He  stared  meditatively  at  a  pair 
of  rough,  half-worn  shoes,  the  plough  and  harrow 
kind,  not  the  dapper  riding  boots  of  the  cowboy, 
and  they  were  caked  with  yellow  mud  not  yet  al 
together  dry.  They  interested  him,  these  shoes, 
and  yet  he  must  not  waste  time  upon  them.  He 
proceeded  quickly  to  the  stable  and  corral.  There 
was  no  one  there.  He  glanced  at  the  sun.  It  was 
high  time  that  the  proper  authorities  be  called 
into  action  and  assistance  rendered  to  Josephine. 
He  longed  greatly  to  pursue  his  investi 
gations  relentlessly  to  the  inexorable  end, 
when  he  should  stand  face  to  face  with  Jack's 
murderer.  But  there  was  Josephine.  Too  much 
time  had  been  frittered  away  already.  If  only 
he  had  waited  at  the  Seven-up  long  enough  for 
his  mother  to  accompany  him!  He  gazed 
longingly  into  the  depths  of  the  forest  to  the 

[236] 


THE  NEXT  MORNING 

north.  How  close  together  grew  the  trees  and 
how  massive  the  trunks  of  many !  He  knew  that 
most  of  the  cowboys  around  cherished  the  belief 
that  the  unbranded  calves  from  the  Indian  herds 
were  systematically  driven  from  the  Reservation 
into  the  seclusion  of  this  heavy  timber  here  to  re 
main  until  such  time  as  the  lord  of  the  domain 
deemed  it  wise  to  remove  them  to  the  open. 
Surely  the  belief  was  a  well-grounded  one.  It 
would  give  him  a  lively  satisfaction  to  penetrate 
that  leafy  labyrinth,  if  only  there  were  not 
such  crying  need  of  him  elsewhere.  But,  after 
all,  it  would  be  foolhardy  to  attempt  to  run  down 
a  man — or  men  —  in  that  unknown  wilderness 
where  a  clever  fugitive,  forewarned,  might  elude 
one  enemy  for  days  at  a  time  and  all  the  while  be 
silently  laughing  behind  some  gigantic  cotton- 
wood  where,  if  the  mood  struck  him,  he  could  end 
his  pursuer's  days  of  searching  by  the  simple  jar 
of  a  little  steel  hammer.  And  then  what  would 
become  of  Josephine?  He  turned  away  reso 
lutely  and  would  not  heed  the  bright-eyed,  saucy 
squirrels  that  seemed,  cunningly,  to  try  to  lure 
him  farther  and  farther  within  the  dim  forest. 
He  retraced  his  steps  and  reentered  the  house. 
"  I  am  going  to  town  now,  Josephine,"  he  said, 
[237] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

gravely.  "I  shall  not  be  gone  long.  You  must 
not  be  afraid.  There  is  no  one  anywhere  around 
the  premises  —  neither  here  nor  on  the  island.  I 
could  not  go  and  leave  you  alone  until  I  had  sat 
isfied  myself  thoroughly  that  there  was  no  one. 
I  —  hate  to  leave  you,  but  as  you  say,  there  is  no 
other  way.  Why,  Josephine,  you  look  different. 
Have  you  dressed  again?"  he  asked,  doubtfully. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "for  I  have  found  another 
way.  I  must  go  and  you  must  stay." 

True.  She  had  taken  advantage  of  Tom's 
absence  to  change  her  pretty  gingham  house 
gown  for  her  riding  habit.  She  was  dressed  for 
out-of-doors  even  to  her  gauntletted  riding 
gloves.  She  was  very  pale,  her  lips  were  pressed 
tightly  together,  and  her  dark  eyes  were  haunted 
with  shadows  that  were  destined  to  come  and  go 
as  long  as  life  lasted;  otherwise,  she  seemed  per 
fectly  composed  and  self-reliant. 

He  did  not  acquiesce  readity.  In  truth,  he 
disputed  her  intention  vehement!}7,  but,  "Mr. 
Burrington,"  she  asked,  unexpectedly,  "  do  you 
believe  that  they  are  satisfied  with  Jack's  death 
alone?" 

He  was  taken  completely  by  surprise  and  ut 
terly  confounded  for  the  moment.  He  hesitated 

[238] 


THE  NEXT  MORNING 

in  troubled  doubt.  Was  it  possible  that  she,  too, 
was  connecting  the  gulch  incident  with  last  night? 
"Tell  me,  Mr.  Burrington,"  she  insisted,  her  eyes 
beginning  to  shine  with  a  feverish  brilliance, 
"  am  I  exempt,  or  is  it  annihilation?  Tell  me, 
for  I  must  know." 

He  bowed  his  head  for  a  moment  while  his 
struggle  lasted.  It  was  very  bitter  for  a  man  of 
Burrington 's  make  to  let  a  girl  ride  away  into 
action  that  at  best  was  fraught  with  peril  while 
he  remained  with  folded  hands  behind.  But  any 
thing  was  better  than  to  leave  her  here  alone 
where  so  many  things  might  happen.  Was  it  not 
true  that  Josephine,  too,  was  proscribed?  It 
would  be  criminal  inefficiency  to  refuse  to  take 
into  consideration  the  man's  probable  return  to 
complete  his  work.  The  thought  was  unbearable. 
Josephine  would  be  far,  far  safer  in  the  wide  out 
doors  with  a  fast  horse  and  a  good  rifle. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  steadily.  "It  has 
come  to  me  just  now  that  I  have  sometimes 
thought  you  knew  something  that  you  would  not 
tell  us.  Who  knows?  Maybe,  if  you  had  —  " 
she  hesitated,  trembling  violently.  "But  how 
ever  that  may  be,  I  must  go  now."  She  stepped 
to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

[239] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

Tom  turned  his  haggard  face  away  for  a  mo 
ment  and  gazed  silently  out  of  the  window. 
There  was  a  terrible  pain  in  his  heart  that  spread 
to  his  eyes  and  burned  them  and  struggled  dog 
gedly  for  the  mastery  of  his  self-control. 

'  You  are  right,"  he  said  at  last,  quietly.  "It 
is  better  for  you  to  go.  But  I  shall  go  with  you." 

"And  leave  —  him — alone?"  she  asked,  with 
a  touch  of  scorn. 

"Then  you  must  go  alone,"  he  said,  with  an 
effort.  "Come,  we  have  lost  too  much  time  al 
ready." 

His  horse  stood  patiently  at  the  door,  the 
bridle  rein  trailing  to  the  ground.  Quickly,  re 
sourcefully,  he  shortened  the  stirrups.  "You  will 
ride  my  horse,"  he  said,  with  cold  authority. 
"  He  is  all  ready  and  besides  he  is  the  longest- 
winded  and  fastest  horse  on  the  range."  He 
slipped  his  arm  through  the  bridle  rein  and 
started  for  the  river,  Josephine  following  blindly. 
Arrived  at  the  boat  landing,  they  found  the  ferry 
gone ;  but  the  light  skiff  was  there  tugging  away 
unweariedly  at  its  safe  moorings,  rebelliously  de 
sirous  of  floating  away  with  the  swift  current. 

"Well,  he  will  just  have  to  swim,"  said  Tom, 
tersely. 

[240] 


THE  NEXT  MORNING 

Holding  the  boat  steady  with  one  hand,  he  held 
out  the  other  to  Josephine.  After  a  momentary 
hesitation,  she  gave  him  her  hand  and  stepped  into 
the  boat. 

"You  will  have  to  sit  in  the  stern  and  lead  the 
horse,"  said  Tom.  "I  am  sorry  to  make  you  do 
this,  but  he  might  not  follow  docilely,  at  least 
until  we  strike  the  middle  of  the  river."  He 
handed  the  reins  to  Josephine,  sprang  into  the 
boat,  seized  the  oars  and  pushed  off. 

On  the  far  shore,  gravely  kind  despite  his 
heartache,  he  lifted  her  into  the  saddle  and  fitted 
his  own  rifle  across  the  saddle  horn. 

"Do  not  spare  the  horse,"  he  said.  "Only  be 
careful  not  to  cripple  him  before  you  reach  the 
uplands.  Give  him  his  head  and  he  will  not  fail 
you.  Good-bye,  Josephine.'* 

Tom  Burrington  watched  the  blue-clad  figure 
until  it  disappeared  up  the  Gap ;  then  he  returned 
to  the  straining  boat  and  rowed  back  across  the 
yellow  river  to  take  his  turn  at  watching  alone. 


[241] 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  LONG  CHASE 

NCE  safely  upon  the  plateau  surrounded 
only  by  unobstructed  distances  and  the  soft, 
rare,  sun-shot  atmosphere  that  touched  her  like  a 
benediction  after  her  long  night  of  murk  and 
horror,  Josephine's  fear  fell  away  from  her.  She 
rode  rapidly  but  not  constrainedly.  Jack  would 
be  well  cared  for  now  and  she  was  so  tired.  There 
was  all  the  time  in  the  world  and  a  long  life  to 
live  alone.  She  must  never  hurry  what  she  had 
to  do  any  more  because,  when  the  things  were  all 
done,  what  would  she  do  then?  There  was  so 
much  time  that  had  to  be  lived  through.  She  was 
stronger  than  she  had  been  last  night  and  knew 
that  it  was  only  a  delirious  though  pleasing  phan 
tasy  of  a  bewildered  brain  that  had  deceived  her 
into  the  belief  that  Jack  would  come  back  to  her. 
She  knew  to-day  that  she  would  have  to  live  her 
life  —  without  Jack.  It  would  be  a  very  long  life, 
too,  because  she  was  so  young  and  very  strong. 
She  could  not  remember  having  ever  been  really 
ill  since  the  old  days  of  the  measles  and  the 

[242] 


THE   LONG  CHASE 

whooping  cough.  She  was  not  the  kind  who 
might  pine  away  and  die  of  heart-break.  She 
should  just  have  to  live  it  out  —  alone  —  there 
was  no  help  for  her  —  the  last  of  her  race — just 
a  lonely  girl  with  nowhere  to  go.  After  a  while, 
a  long,  dreary,  barren  while,  she  would  be  a 
white-haired,  sad-eyed  old  woman  —  still  with 
nowhere  to  go.  She  did  not  see  how  she  could 
bear  it  —  but  she  should  just  have  to  —  there 
was  no  other  way. 

And  then  for  some  vague,  indefinable  reason, 
she  turned  her  head  and  glanced  back  over  the 
road  she  had  just  come.  It  stretched  behind  her 
straight  and  level  and  rain-freshened,  but  she 
was  no  longer  alone  upon  it.  What  was  there  so 
hauntingly  familiar  in  the  pose  of  the  man  riding 
so  rapidly  her  way?  She  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
gazing  earnestly  backward.  His  horse  seemed  to 
be  clearing  the  ground  in  great  leaps.  Suddenly 
the  truth  came  to  her  in  a  sickening  sense  of  com 
prehension.  He  was  the  man  with  the  baby  blue 
eyes  whom  she  had  recognized  last  night  lurking 
around  the  wood  yard  of  the  Broken  Key  —  and 
he  had  dared  to  give  chase  after  her  on  the  high 
road.  Ah,  God!  Would  this  terrible  nightmare 
never  end?  She  pressed  her  pale  lips  close  to- 

[243] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

gether,  leaned  low  in  the  saddle,  and  gave  the 
horse  his  head  with  a  whispered  word  in  his  ear 
as  she  had  been  wont  to  speak  to  Long  Chase. 
Long  Chase!  What  was  it  that  Jack  had  said 
once  about  the  "long  chase"?  She  shuddered  be 
cause  it  had  come  and  she  had  not  her  own.  Was 
it  an  evil  omen  that,  when  the  time  was  come, 
Long  Chase  should  be  peacefully  grazing  many 
miles  away? 

Yet  it  was  a  good  horse  she  rode  and  he  ran 
with  head  low  and  with  long,  loping  strides  that 
measured  off  the  land  in  regular  and  telling 
distances ;  but  the  speed  of  her  horse  was  to  be  of 
no  advantage.  She  heard  the  report  of  a  rifle 
and  the  whistle  of  a  bullet  as  it  passed  in  close 
proximity  to  her.  She  had  lingered  too  long 
pondering  the  long,  dreary  years  that  stretched 
out  before  her  into  such  an  infinity  of  unending- 
ness,  and  now  her  life  was  to  be  cut  off  short  as 
Jack's  had  been,  without  time  for  reconstructing 
her  outlook,  without  choice  or  appeal.  Moreover, 
she  was  to  be  shot  down  in  malicious,  unreasoning 
play.  Jack  was  a  man  and  as  such  had  been  big 
game  worthy  the  unremitting  zeal  and  changeless 
purpose  of  the  huntsman;  but  just  because  she 
was  a  no-account,  friendless  girl,  troublesome 

[244] 


THE   LONG  CHASE 

only  by  reason  of  her  relationship  to  Jack,  she 
was  to  be  shot  down  in  the  ruthless,  inconsequen 
tial  way  of  the  sportsman,  who,  after  having 
successfully  stalked  his  big  game,  picks  off  a 
gopher  or  a  blue  bird  or  a  harmless  owl,  for  no 
reason  at  all  except  an  overflow  of  exuberant 
and  wanton  spirits.  Was  there  any  other  reason 
why  any  one  should  desire  to  kill  her?  Well, 
and  why  not?  The  years  were  long  —  Jack  was 
dead.  Half-unconsciously,  she  drew  rein.  Let 
the  end  come  now.  It  was  far,  far  better  so. 
She  and  Jack  could  go  together,  after  all. 
Nothing  else  was  worth  while,  so  of  what  use  this 
blind  struggle  for  mere  life  —  life  that  would  be 
too  hard  to  live  even  if  she  won  it  ?  Death  by  the 
bullet  was  easy  —  that  is  —  it  would  be  only  a 
second  or  two  and  Jack  had  borne  it.  She  could 
bear  it,  too.  Why  should  she,  a  girl,  presume  to 
be  the  last  of  a  race  noted  through  generations  for 
its  gallant  men?  She  heard  another  shot  and  the 
whir  of  another  bullet. 

Suddenly  the  blood  rushed  to  her  colorless  face, 
the  insane  stare  of  the  brown  eyes  into  the  unre- 
vealed  mysteries  of  another  world  gave  way  to  a 
warm  human  look  of  firm  resolve,  and  once  again 
Tom's  horse  bounded  over  the  road  making  the 

[245] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

best  run  of  his  life  and  with  an  evil  light  in  his 
eye  for  the  presumptuous  cayuse  who  had  dared 
to  gain  so  many  leagues  during  the  temporary 
aberration  of  mind  of  his  strange  rider  whose 
slightest  behest  he  instinctively  obeyed,  however 
unwillingly.  Perhaps  there  was  something  in  the 
pressure  of  the  knees  and  in  the  feel  of  the  bit 
that  told  him  he  must  —  that  though  his  burden 
was  light  it  was  masterful. 

Ay !  Jack  was  dead ;  but  the  slayer  of  him  was 
not  and  while  he  lived,  Josephine  would  live,  too. 
The  reaction  had  come.  There  would  be  time 
enough  and  to  spare  for  her  to  try  to  find  a  way 
to  live  the  long  years  when  Jack's  murderer  had 
been  made  to  drink  to  the  bitter  dregs  the  cup 
wrhich  was  "  An  eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a 
tooth." 

She  had  accomplished  about  twelve  miles  of 
her  journey  when  she  turned  to  find  herself  pur 
sued.  Soon  the  road  swerved  sharply  around  a 
grove  of  trees  planted  years  ago  by  a  man  who 
had  dreamed  dreams  but  who  had  not  had  the 
courage  of  them  and  had  retraced  his  way  to  the 
nearer  but  more  limited  opportunities  of  an  older 
civilization.  The  place  was  now  deserted  save 
for  birds  and  wild  prairie  creatures.  On  the  far 

[246] 


THE   LONG   CHASE 

side,  Josephine  dismounted,  led  the  horse  well 
within  the  shelter  of  the  trees  and  tied  him  se 
curely.  She  should  have  need  of  him  —  after 
wards,  and  so  there  must  be  no  possibility  of  the 
animal's  abandoning  her  in  a  sudden  fright.  She 
was  quite  calm  and  made  her  plans  collectedly, 
taking  up  her  own  station  behind  a  huge 
straight-trunked  cottonwood  and  waiting.  She 
realized  fully  that  her  position  would  not  be 
tenable  long  should  she  fail  in  her  purpose. 
There  were  no  more  turns  on  the  road  to  Velpen. 
He  could  see  that  she  was  not  on  it.  It  was  sweet 
and  quiet  and  cool  here  under  the  trees  after  the 
rain;  and  there  was  a  home-like,  woodsy  smell, 
faint  but  true,  because  of  the  dampened  foliage 
that  had  lain  there  many  years.  If  he  would  only 
just  pass  on  and  leave  her  unmolested!  Pres 
ently  then,  she  would  slip  out  and  continue  her 
journey  to  town  and  let  him  whose  right  it  was, 
and  whose  duty,  do  for  the  murderer  what  there 
was  to  be  done.  But  in  her  heart  she  knew  that 
he  would  not  pass  on. 

The  iron-shod  feet  were  coming  very  near  now. 
Just  a  moment  and  they  would  round  the  point. 
But  how  long  that  moment  was!  Long  since  it 
seemed  to  her  that  it  must  have  passed  and  still 

[247] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

she  heard  and  could  not  see.  How  regular  and 
rhythmical  the  hoof-beats  were,  pounding  along 
on  the  hardened  earth  whose  surface  only  had 
been  thinly  affected  by  last  night's  storm!  She 
put  her  free  hand  to  her  throat.  She  had  an  al 
most  uncontrollable  inclination  to  scream  aloud 
in  hysteria.  Why  did  he  not  come?  She  won 
dered  irrelevantly  if  her  pretty  hair  would  be 
found  to  be  gray-streaked  when  this  was  all  over. 
He  came  at  last,  his  horse  lathered  with  the  heat 
of  the  chase.  The  man  writh  the  baby  blue  eyes 
evidently  had  not  thought  of  let  or  hindrance,  for 
he  swung  around  the  angle  without  diminution 
of  speed.  There  was  even  something  of  triumph 
in  the  sweep  of  his  unguarded  curve  toward  the 
new  prospective,  as  if  insolently  assured  that  now 
the  end  was  very  near.  He  glanced  down  the 
road  and  made  a  movement  as  though  to  stop 
his  horse.  It  was  at  that  moment  Josephine  shot. 
Not  in  vain  had  been  Louis'  painstaking  effort 
to  teach  his  friend  of  his  own  newly  acquired 
and  proudly  shared  knowledge  of  firearms  only 
the  day  before;  for  the  man  lurched  forward  in 
his  saddle  and  fell  prone  to  the  ground. 

For  a  moment  the  world  turned  dark  to  Jose 
phine  and  she  leaned  heavily  against  the  tree  for 

1248} 


THE   LONG  CHASE 

support.  She  had  killed  the  slayer  of  her  brother! 
Would  the  nightmare  never  end?  But  she  could 
not  leave  him  out  there  in  the  road  alone  for  the 
pitiless  sun  to  beat  upon  and  the  rollicking 
prairie  wind  to  sport  with.  Now  that  he  was 
dead,  a  strange  pity  for  him  surged  up  in  her 
woman's  heart.  The  horse  was  standing  per 
fectly  still  where  he  had  so  abruptly  halted  when 
his  rider  had  fallen  at  his  feet.  Tremblingly, 
Josephine  approached.  He  seemed  very  young 
lying  so  helplessly  there,  his  eyes  closed  and  one 
arm  thrown  out  between  the  horse's  feet  where 
a  step  would  have  trampled  it  into  the  earth. 
Stooping,  she  gathered  the  big,  inert  shoulders 
within  her  arms,  overcoming  by  a  tremendous 
effort  of  will  the  sudden  violent  repugnance  that 
laid  hold  of  her  when  she  remembered  for  whom 
she  had  so  short  a  time  before  performed  a  like 
service.  She  laid  him  down  in  the  shade  of  the 
cottonwood  whose  leaves  were  quivering  and 
rustling  one  against  another  with  a  lonesome 
sound,  and  then  with  a  little  sob  of  relief  she 
turned  to  her  horse.  But  she  paused  irresolute, 
her  hand  on  the  bridle  rein,  a  new  horror  dawn 
ing  upon  her  face.  What  was  it,  that  faint,  far 
away  sound,  so  distant  when  first  it  arrested  her 

[249] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

attention  but  growing  more  and  more  distinct  — 
so  rapid,  so  regular,  so  insistent?  Was  it  the 
beat  of  other  hoofs  upon  the  sod?  Was  Frank 
LaDue  coming  to  gloat  over  the  culmination 
of  his  heinous  plots?  Or  was  it  a  dream  sound, 
that  running,  pounding,  louder-growing,  heart- 
clutching  clamor  that  would  break  and  subside 
into  vague  echoes  of  unreality  only  when  she 
might  struggle  free  from  the  nightmare  that 
had  haunted  her  all  night?  She  crept  close  to 
Tom's  horse  for  companionship,  and  in  numbed 
dread  waited. 


[250] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ONJIJITKA'S  LAMENT 

A  NOTHER  girl  was  sitting  on  the  floor  by 
Jack  when  Tom  returned  to  the  house  — 
Onjijitka,  the  half-breed  girl;  but  this  girl  sprang 
up  quickly  and  faced  him  with  defiance  as  if  she 
had  been  caught  in  mischief  and  expected  censure. 
In  her  attitude,  there  was  something  also  of  a 
startled  wild  creature  at  bay  and  there  was  cor- 
roboration  in  her  stammering  words  of  excuse. 

"He  —  he — was  all  alone  and  I  was  watch 
ing  by  him  for  Josephine's  sake." 

It  was  a  pitiful  subterfuge  —  there  in  the 
presence  of  all  that  was  mortal  of  the  man 
who  had  been  a  good  friend  to  her  —  and  in  her 
soul  she  felt  it  to  be  unworthy.  Better,  far  bet 
ter,  humiliation  in  the  sight  of  this  arrogant 
rancher  than  repudiation  —  here  —  of  that  which 
was  the  highest  and  best  thing  she  had  ever 
known.  She  could  never  speak  of  it  again  after 
ward,  never  stoop  to  explain,  this  she  knew,  but 
here  and  now  it  was  like  cheating  the  dead  —  the 
beloved  dead  —  to  even  act  a  lie;  besides  she  was 
a  woman  of  the  Dakotahs  and  it  was  her  right 

[251] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

to  mourn  aloud  for  the  brave  who  had  gone.  So 
she  threw  back  her  head  with  a  gesture  of  pride 
and  looked  at  the  intruder  squarely  while  in  her 
sombre  black  eyes  glowed  the  mysteries  of  the 
most  sacred  thing  of  two  races  met  in  one. 

"He  was  not  like  any  man  I  ever  knew  before," 
she  said. 

This  was  Onjijitka's  lament  for  the  dead. 
Thus  began  and  ended  her  public  mourning. 
She  had  held  to  her  racial  instinct  to  cry  aloud 
her  grief;  she  had  not  lied  to  the  spirit  that  was 
gone.  Never  again  did  she  break  her  sealed  reti 
cence  and  speak  of  that  which  was  in  the  heart 
of  her  heart  as  she  had  spoken  to  Tom  Burring- 
ton  of  the  Seven-up  by  the  side  of  the  dead  man. 
But  henceforth  she  was  always  solitary,  growing 
more  silent  and  reserved  as  time  went  on,  and 
liking  much  to  slip  away  by  herself  somewhere  on 
the  wide  prairie  and  listen  all  day  long,  perhaps, 
to  the  whispering  grass  and  the  singing  wind, 
trying  to  attune  her  mortal  ear  to  the  secrets 
they  were  forever  trying  to  tell. 

"Who  has  done  this  thing,  Rosebud?"  asked 
Tom,  presently,  when  he  had  succeeded  in  swal 
lowing  the  lump  in  his  throat  that  had  suddenly 
thrust  itself  there  for  Rosebud's  sake. 

[252] 


ONJIJITKA'S   LAMENT 

"Frank  LaDue,"  she  answered  unhesitatingly. 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 
'  You  think   so,   too,   don't   you? "    counter- 
questioned  the  girl. 

"Yes,  I  am  afraid  that  I  do,"  said  Tom,  slowly. 

"I  know  —  what  I  know,"  said  Rosebud,  enig 
matically.  "  Where  is  Josephine?  " 

"She  has  gone  to  town  for  help." 

"  And  you  let  her  go?  "  accused  Rosebud. 

"I  could  not  help  it,  Rosebud.  She  is  safer  in 
the  open  than  here,  and  some  one  had  to  go." 

"  I  could  have  taken  care  of  her,"  said  she. 

"But  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  coming. 
I  should  not  have  let  her  go  had  I  known." 

Frowningly,  Rosebud  gazed  out  at  the  open 
door  and  it  was  as  if  she  were  listening  to  some 
thing  afar  off.  Tom  watched  her  silently  and 
wondered  about  many  things  in  that  brief  while, 
but  about  one  thing  most  of  all.  Had  Jack  loved 
this  lithe-limbed,  beautiful  maid  of  the  Dakotahs? 
That  was  something  he  could  never  know. 

"I  am  afraid  for  Josephine,"  said  Rosebud,  at 
last,  turning  to  him  and  speaking  thoughtfully. 
"What  if  he  should  take  after  her?  He  hates 
Josephine.  He  calls  her  names — as  he  does 
me.  The  night  he  stole  the  cow,  you  know,  he 

[253] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

called  her  names.  I  heard  him.  I  am  afraid  for 
Josephine." 

"There  was  no  one  at  home  on  the  island,"  said 
Tom,  soberly.  "I  ascertained  that  the  first  thing 
this  morning." 

Rosebud  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Not  at  home,  maybe,  but  not  far  away,  I  '11 
warrant  you.  Come,  let  us  see  if  the  boat  is  still 
there." 

They  left  the  house  together,  carefully  closing 
the  door  behind  them,  and  hastened  down  to  the 
shore.  There  was  a  light  wind  blowing.  They 
could  hear  it  in  the  treetops.  The  water  lapping 
the  bank  and  sucking  away  the  sand  made  a 
gentle,  dreamy  sound  suggestive  of  solitude  and 
unread  mysteries.  There  was  no  other  sound  to 
break  the  summer  stillness.  The  two  stared  at 
one  another  blankly. 

"It 's  gone,  Rosebud,"  said  Tom  at  last,  me 
chanically,  passing  his  hand  over  his  forehead  to 
brush  away  an  imaginary  something  there. 

But  the  girl's  eager  eyes  were  already  fixed 
upon  the  opposite  hills  which,  seemingly  destitute 
of  life,  lay  in  strange  convolutions  beneath  the 
blazing  sun,  their  gumbo-blackened  outlines 
softened  by  the  shimmering  distance. 

[254] 


ONJIJITKA'S   LAMENT 

"Look,  Tom!"  she  cried,  suddenly,  in  quick 
and  burning  excitement.  "There  —  on  the  hill  — 
no,  beyond  the  Gap  —  the  second  rise!" 

Plainly  silhouetted  against  the  blue  and  sunlit 
sky  on  the  highest  point  on  the  other  side,  rode 
a  man  who  had  not  been  there  a  moment  before 
and  who  must  have  just  accomplished  the  tor 
tuous  climb  to  the  level.  In  a  moment,  he  had 
disappeared  from  view  behind  the  rim,  into  the 
broad  high  plains  beyond. 

"He  rides  like  Henry  Hoffman,"  said  Tom, 
in  a  dangerously  calm  voice.  "LaDue  is  a  slop  in 
the  saddle." 

"But  Henry  Hoffman  works  for  LaDue," 
said  Rosebud. 

"Yes,  Henry  Hoffman  works  for  LaDue," 
said  Tom,  slowly.  "We  must  find  another  boat," 
he  added,  decisively. 

He  glanced  keenly  up  and  down  the  sandy, 
treacherous  shore.  The  Indian  girl  had  no  need 
to  deprecate  his  slow,  methodical  reasoning  now. 
When  action  was  the  paramount  consideration, 
his  the  initiative,  hers  to  follow.  He  explained 
briefly  during  their  short  and  unsatisfactory 
search  for  another  boat  what  he  intended  to  do. 
He  would  cross  the  river  if  he  had  to  swim  it,  go 

[255] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

to  Ole  Johnson's  place  a  quarter  of  a  mile  down 
the  river,  and  borrow  his  fast  horse.  He  was  con 
fident  that  thus  equipped,  even  with  the  handicap 
of  lost  time,  he  could  overtake  any  horse 
that  LaDue  owned,  or  any  horse  on  the  range 
for  that  matter,  except  the  one  Josephine  was 
riding. 

Half -sunken  in  the  fine,  shifting,  and  watery 
sands  and  considerably  below  the  usual  boat  land 
ing,  they  came  suddenly  upon  a  clumsy  skiff,  an 
ancient  derelict  whose  days  of  adequate  service 
had  long  since  gone  by.  Nevertheless,  they 
quickly  dragged  it  upon  the  shore,  quickly  turned 
it  upon  its  side  and  emptied  it  of  its  contents, 
Rosebud  obeying  the  man's  behests  with  an  un 
questioning  faith  and  comprehension  that  boded 
well  for  Josephine's  rescue. 

"It  leaks  like  the  devil,"  said  Tom,  "but  when 
it  is  full  I  '11  abandon  it." 

He  kicked  off  his  shoes  as  he  spoke,  in  antici 
pation  of  the  contemplated  emergency.  Fortu 
nately  a  pair  of  oars  thrown  up  on  the  bank  and 
forgotten  these  many  moons  were  found  to  be 
reasonably  sound  and  Tom  determined  to  trust 
himself  and  his  mission  without  further  delay  to 
this  precarious  means  of  transportation. 

[256] 


ONJIJITKA'S   LAMENT 

"I  will  go  with  you  to  bail  for  you,"  proffered 
Rosebud,  bravely. 

"No,  Rosebud,"  said  Tom,  firmly.  "You  are 
needed  here.  Have  you  thought  of  the  possi 
bility  of  —  some  one's  returning  and  attempting 
to  burn  the  house  in  order  to  hide  all  evidence  of 
the  crime?  You  know  what  to  do  if  any  one 
comes.  Good-bye,  girl." 

Rosebud  did  not  linger  to  see  how  he  fared. 
The  man  out  there  in  the  condemned  boat  had 
little  need  of  the  girl's  emotional  attendance  upon 
this  play  of  his,  either  for  moral  support  or  to 
feed  his  enthusiasm.  This  was  not  a  spectacular 
play  to  be  acted  before  the  grandstand  or  a  coterie 
of  ardent  admirers  whose  champion  he  was.  It 
was  the  play  of  life  and  death.  He  had  need  of 
nothing  in  this  world  but  his  own  indomitable 
spirit,  his  steady  nerve,  his  incomparable  strength 
and  —  the  thought  of  Josephine.  In  the  world 
beyond,  perhaps,  he  had  need  of  much,  but  that 
did  not  bother  Tom,  because  if  he  had  stopped  to 
think  about  how  great  was  his  need  of  a  power 
far  superior  to  his  own,  his  opportunity  would 
have  been  lost.  So  he  concentrated  all  his 
faculties  upon  his  own  capabilities,  and  the  In 
dian  girl  knew  that  he  would  do  well.  But  there 

[257] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

was  one  who  needed  her.  She  glanced  once  at  the 
man  making  his  slow,  wearisome  way  across  the 
river,  her  eagerness  and  animation  gradually 
giving  place  to  a  strange  immobility  of  expres 
sion,  then  turned,  and,  abandoning  the  heavy 
sand  of  the  wagon  road  for  the  greater  solitude 
and  aloofness  of  an  untried  way  through  the 
timber,  silently  and  swiftly  made  her  way  back 
to  the  Broken  Key. 

The  terrible  push  of  the  current  gave  Tom 
little  time  to  bail  the  rapidly  filling  boat.  The 
water  did  not  seep  its  way  through  infinitesimal 
crevices  but  literally  poured  in  through  the  gap 
ing  cracks  of  the  water-soaked  and  water-warped 
flat  bottom,  with  a  gurgle  and  a  chuckle  that 
seemed  to  gloat,  tantalizingly,  in  anticipation  of 
the  inevitable  result  of  this  hard-fought  struggle 
for  supremacy.  When  he  desisted  for  a  moment 
in  his  effort  to  cut  the  channel  as  nearly  as  possi 
ble  at  right  angles,  he  was  carried  swiftly  down 
the  river  so  that  he  lost  any  advantage  that  ac 
crued  temporarily  from  the  lightened  boat,  as  it 
soon  filled  again,  and  the  little  headway  he  had 
gained  was  more  than  balanced  by  the  loss  of  his 
ability  now  to  make  an  advantageous  landing  at 
the  Gap.  Meanwhile,  up  there  beyond  those 

[258] 


ONJIJITKA'S   LAMENT 

frowning  and  precipitous  cliffs,  an  unprotected 
girl  was  riding  furiously  for  her  life,  maybe, 
while  a  fiend  rode  in  relentless  pursuit.  The 
water  played  treacherously  around  his  bare  feet, 
plashing  back  and  forth  with  a  gathering  mo 
mentum,  swayed  by  the  impetus  of  the  powerful 
and  determined  strokes  of  the  oars  wielded  un 
dauntedly  against  heavy  odds.  Now  the  water 
covered  his  ankles.  His  exertion  was  gigantic. 
He  had  no  more  strength  in  reserve.  He  was 
using  it  all  —  to  the  very  dregs.  Perspiration 
came  out  in  big  beads  on  his  forehead  and  trickled 
down  his  set  face.  The  handkerchief  around  his 
throat  became  damp  and  steamy  and  choking,  but 
he  could  not  spare  a  hand  to  remove  it.  Sunlight 
scintillated  on  the  dancing  ripples  and  his  eyes 
ached  with  the  glare  of  it  until  the  green  of  the 
receding  shore  was  lost  to  him  in  a  blur  of  shim 
mering  white. 

He  was  half  way  across  when  the  hungry,  in 
gulfing  waters  flowed  over  the  sides  of  the  boat 
and  met,  with  the  exultant  kiss  of  the  conquering, 
the  inner  waters  which,  like  some  warriors  of 
Greece  aaons  ago,  who,  having  gained  a  surrep 
titious  entrance  into  the  city  of  their  wrath, 
treacherously  it  may  be,  but  with  the  fortunes  of 

[259] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

war,  opened  its  gates  to  the  conquering  horde, 
had  made  this  victorious  meeting  possible.  Tom 
was  prepared  for  the  triumphant  embrace.  He 
rolled  easily  into 'the  water,  away  from  the  suc 
tion  of  the  sinking  boat,  and  rested  for  the 
fraction  of  a  minute  upon  his  back  before  striking 
out  for  the  still  distant  shore. 

The  odds  were  tremendous  but  he  overcame 
them  all,  and  accomplished  his  stint  to  the  quieter 
waters  that  crowded  against  the  steep,  slaty 
cliffs,  and  breathed  freely  once  more.  Here  a 
new  difficulty  presented  itself  and  one  that  threat 
ened  grave  results.  The  annual  June  rise  had 
begun  and  the  river  was  rolling  high  between  its 
banks,  so  that  only  where  the  deeper  ravines  drew 
to  the  river  was  a  landing  practicable  or  even 
possible.  He  had  drifted  so  far  with  the  current 
that  he  had  long  ago  passed  the  deep  gap  in  the 
hills  that  gave  access  for  crossing  to  the  island 
and  to  the  Broken  Key  ranch,  and  now  a  perpen 
dicular  wall  of  solid  chalk  rock  reared  itself  up 
ward,  appalling  in  its  significance.  The  wash  of 
other  rises  had  worn  the  rock  almost  to  the 
smoothness  of  glass,  so  that  there  was  nothing  a 
man  might  grasp  to  stay  his  deadly  progress 
down  the  river.  Had  he  passed  Ole  Johnson's 

[260] 


ONJIJITKA'S    LAMENT 

cattle  trail  to  the  water  course?  If  he  had,  poor 
Josephine!  He  was  very  strong  to  endure.  He 
might  manage  to  keep  the  greedy  water  out  of 
his  lungs  by  kindly  luck  and  by  just  drifting 
until  this  hideous  nightmare  of  an  unbroken  cliff 
gave  way  to  the  open  country,  but  it  would  be 
too  late  for  Josephine,  far  too  late,  poor  Jose 
phine!  The  thought  made  him  frantic  for  the 
moment.  He  tore  at  the  unresponsive  surface 
with  impotent  hands  and  a  maddened  brain  until 
many  spots  were  stained  with  the  blood  of  his 
cruel  efforts.  The  uselessness  of  it  all,  however, 
soon  calmed  his  desperation  and,  well  nigh  ex 
hausted,  he  allowed  himself  to  drift  idly  along, 
keeping  himself  afloat  with  one  hand  while  the 
other  he  dragged  slowly  along  the  menacing  wall, 
ready  to  clutch  at  the  first  knob  or  embrasure 
that  offered  a  hold  to  his  tingling  fingers. 
Though  how  to  scale  the  cliff,  granted  a  foothold 
gained,  was  a  problem  of  which  he  would  not  let 
himself  think  until  the  time  came  to  grapple 
with  it,  hand  to  hand.  There  would  be  time 
enough  then  to  find  a  way  or  —  not  to  find  a  way. 
Thank  God,  he  had  not  drifted  beyond  Ole 
Johnson's  gulch  after  all.  A  warmth  came  back 
to  his  heart,  the  old  fire  leaped  into  the  gray  eyes 

[261] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

that  had  looked  so  closely  upon  death,  and  so 
gallantly.  Once  more  it  was  his  to  shape  his 
course  and  pursue  it.  Ah,  but  the  feel  of  it  was 
good! 

He  bounded  upon  the  shore,  ran  swiftly  along 
the  jagged  way  unmindful  of  his  unshod  feet, 
until  he  came  to  the  longed-for  gap  in  the  hills. 
In  the  shortest  time  possible  for  the  accomplish 
ment  thereof,  he  had  made  known  his  wants  to 
Ole  Johnson,  a  bachelor  Scandinavian,  a  recluse 
by  habit,  but  a  humanitarian  by  instinct,  else  he 
never  had  given  over  his  loved  thoroughbred  to 
such  a  dare-devil  rider  on  such  a  dare-devil 
errand,  and  was  in  the  saddle,  rebelted  with  Ole's 
own  cartridge  belt  and  armed  with  his  pistols, 
and  was  cutting  across  the  sun-seared  plain  on 
the  trail  of  the  man  with  the  baby  blue  eyes  who 
had  told  him  once  that  "He  must  be  a-movin' 
on." 


[262] 


CHAPTER  XVII 

BURRINGTON  JOINS  THE  CHASE 

*\\  7"HEN  he  came  out  upon  the  main  road,  he 
noted  with  a  feeling  of  intense  relief  that 
the  tracks  of  pursuer  and  pursued  were  plainly 
stamped  thereon.  The  rain  had  wrought  well 
for  his  peace  of  mind,  for  as  yet  there  were  no 
signs  of  Josephine's  having  been  overtaken. 
The  regularity  of  the  hoof-prints  remained  un 
broken  for  many  a  mile  with  no  faltering  of  the 
one,  as  if  the  hand  that  guided  had  been  sud 
denly  struck  down,  and  with  no  perceptible 
quickening  of  the  other  as  if  in  a  sudden  burst  of 
triumphant  recognition  of  a  weakening  on  the 
part  of  her  who  rode  ahead.  A  hope,  faintly 
illusive  in  the  beginning  but  gradually  growing 
stronger  and  more  abiding,  took  possession  of  him 
-  a  hope  that  Josephine  had  not  been  taken  una 
wares,  that  she  had  been  on  her  guard  from  the 
first  and  had  been  miles  in  the  lead  before  ever 
this  chopper  of  wood  had  crossed  the  river.  As 
for  the  horse  she  rode,  there  was  no  danger  but 
that  he  would  become  infused  with  the  spirit  of 

[263] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

the  chase  at  the  first  hint  of  an  unfriendly 
presence  in  his  rear.  He  had  good  blood  in  him 
and  had  fleetness  of  foot  and  an  unusual  strength 
of  endurance  without  the  vicious  unreliability  of 
the  average  mongrel  range-bred  bronco.  He  had 
also  been  broken  and  trained  by  a  proud  master. 
He  now  stood  as  an  accurate  exponent  of  the 
pride  of  man  combined  with  the  pride  of  beast. 
Tom  could  not  know  what  manner  of  horse-flesh 
Henry  Hoffman  was  astride,  but  he  knew  that 
this  quondam  cowboy  had  ridden  away  from  the 
Seven-up  on  that  never-to-be-forgotten  morning 
when  the  ice  went  out,  upon  a  rough-coated, 
tangle-tailed,  calico  pony  with  an  antagonistic 
gleam  in  his  eyes  and  an  innate  aversion  to 
undue  haste.  These  same  characteristics  had 
won  for  him,  during  his  brief  sojourn,  im 
munity  from  active  service,  because  there  was  no 
time  to  waste  at  the  Seven-up;  and  so  the  pony 
had  been  allowed  to  wander  and  feast  undisturbed 
upon  the  good  grass  lands,  while  the  man  whom 
he  had  grudgingly  carried  to  this  undreamed-of 
horse  heaven,  snubbed  other  mistaken  beasts  and 
rode  them  to  cattle.  Frank  LaDue  owned  no 
thoroughbreds;  hence  the  man  had  gained  little, 
even  granting  that  he  had  discarded  the  calico 

[264] 


JOINING   THE   CHASE 

pony  for  an  uncertain  mount  borrowed  from  the 
indifferent  horse  herd  of  the  islander.  There 
were  good  grounds  for,  the  warmth  of  faith  that 
Tom  hugged  to  himself  as  Ole  Johnson's  horse 
ate  up  the  distance  in  voracious  mouthf  uls.  Little 
needtwas  there  of  boot  or  spur.  The  tap  of  Tom's 
bare  heel  was  incentive  enough  and  to  spare  for 
the  best  efforts  of  an  animal  already  on  its  mettle. 
By  far  the  greater  portion  of  the  distance  was 
well  behind  him  and  the  breath  of  an  involuntary 
prayer  of  thanksgiving  had  but  just  escaped  his 
undemonstrative  lips  when  two  riders  appeared 
before  his  strained  gaze  —  perhaps  a  mile  ahead 
of  him  —  perhaps  more.  They  were  much  too 
far  removed  for  him  to  see  the  muscular  play 
of  the  cruel  struggle  for  more  speed  when  their 
speed  was  already  so  great  they  seemed  to  be 
skimming  over  the  way  like  birds.  After 
his  set-back  in  crossing  the  river,  he  had 
not  dared  to  believe  that  he  might  over 
take  them.  Surely  Josephine  had  loitered  on 
the  way,  and  as  surely  for  some  purpose  that 
he  could  not  fathom,  Henry  had  lingered,  too. 
Why  ?  He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer  to  the  half- 
formed  question  in  his  mind,  but,  digging  his 
heels  once  more  in  the  animal's  sides,  he  bent  his 

[265] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

head,  and  the  horse  that  had  seemingly  been  al 
ready  doing  its  best  sprang  forward  with  a  new 
impetus,  so  that  the  light  breeze  which  had  come 
out  of  the  north  after  the  storm  pressed  like  a 
strong  wind  and  finally  lifted  his  heavy  hat  from 
his  head  and  deposited  it  upon  the  road  far  be 
hind.  He  let  it  lie  where  it  fell.  One  of  those 
figures  ahead  had  much  advantage  in  the  lead. 
It  was  Josephine,  of  course;  but  could  she  main 
tain  it?  At  any  moment  might  not  the  man  cut 
short  this  ghastly  play  by  means  of  a  bullet? 
He  tingled  with  the  dread  of  the  sound  of  a 
shot,  and  then  caught  his  breath  sharply  with  the 
fear  that  he  might  not  hear  it  should  it  occur, 
but  the  wind  was  with  him  and  Josephine  still 
rode  unhampered  and  with  a  fine  grip  of  herself. 
My  God!  Had  it  come?  The  report  of  a 
rifle  came  floating  back  upon  the  wind.  Jose 
phine  still  kept  her  seat,  but  all  at  once  she 
seemed  to  be  losing  ground.  Had  she  or  the  horse 
been  hit,  or  had  he  overestimated  the  horse's  en 
durance?  Just  two  short  miles  beyond  the  grove 
of  trees  lay  the  town  on  the  bluff  side,  and  behind 
-  less  than  a  mile  now  —  so  close  that  if  he  only 
had  his  rifle  its  carrying  power  might  even  now 
put  a  sudden  end  to  this  terrible  strain  —  so  close 

[266] 


JOINING   THE   CHASE 

that  if  he  failed  in  his  mission  he  should  simply 
turn  stern,  accusing  eyes  to  the  distant  sky,  curse 
the  grinning  fates  that  tantalized,  and  die  —  rode 
the  man  who  loved  her  with  his  whole  strong 
heart.  But  what  could  his  strength  avail  her 
now?  The  man  would  certainly  shoot  her  before 
he  could  get  close  enough  to  stop  him.  He  no 
ticed  that  she  again  seemed  to  be  gaining.  "Oh, 
Josephine!  Josephine!"  he  breathed,  not  real 
izing  that  he  spoke  aloud,  so  great  was  the  stress 
of  his  effort  and  the  fear  of  what  might  at  any 
moment  now  stay  her  in  her  gallant  race  for  life. 
"If  you  can  only  keep  up  a  little  longer  I  may 
be  able  to  help  you." 

He  heard  another  shot  and  saw  Josephine  dis 
appear  around  the  grove.  As  Henry  neared  the 
turning  point,  Tom,  with  the  forlorn  hope  that 
the  staring  distance  would  carry  the  sound  of  it 
to  the  ears  of  the  man  who  was  about  to  follow 
into  the  blankness  beyond  the  trees  and  warn  him 
that  he  was  not  alone  with  his  fell  design,  seized 
his  pistol,  so  ineffectual  at  that  distance,  and  shot 
rapidly  many  times  into  the  face  of  the  wind,  nor 
did  he  desist  until  Henry,  too,  had  disappeared 
from  sight.  For  the  first  time  since  the  pre 
cipitous  wall,  whose  foundation  had  been  bathed 

[267] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

in  the  turbulent  waters  of  the  June  rise,  had  pre 
sented  itself  immutably  to  his  impotent  hands, 
utter  hopelessness  laid  hold  of  him  coldly. 

He  drew  in  his  horse  somewhat  when  he  came 
to  the  turn,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  not 
bear  to  see  what  he  dreaded  had  come  to  pass. 
But  the  way  opened  before  him,  straight,  sunny, 
deserted,  save  for  a  runty  calico  pony  that  grazed 
by  the  wayside.  How  many,  many  times  in  the 
years  gone  by  had  it  stretched  before  him  thus 
and  yet  —  In  the  momentary  bewilderment  that 
preceded  comprehension,  a  rifle  shot  rang  out 
sharply  in  the  waiting  silence.  He  heard  the  bul 
let  whistle  purringly  past  him,  felt  against 
his  bronzed  cheek  the  slight,  cool  breath  of  the 
displaced  air,  and  with  the  quick  conclusion  that 
Henry  Hoffman  lay  in  ambush  for  him,  he  jerked 
his  horse  back  upon  its  haunches  simultaneously 
with  the  act  of  again  seizing  the  pistol  that  had 
been  returned  to  its  holster ;  but  at  that  moment  a 
slim,  girlish,  blue-clad  figure  with  dishevelled  yel 
low  hair,  a  white  face,  and  wide,  appealing  eyes 
ran  out  from  somewhere  among  the  trees  and 
stood  panting  before  him. 

"Did  I  kill  you?"  There  was  a  sharp  agony  in 
her  voice. 

[268] 


JOINING   THE   CHASE 

"  Don't  I  look  very  much  alive?  "  asked  Tom, 
with  a  little  unsteady  laugh  of  relief  as  he  threw 
himself  from  his  horse.  "I  feel  alive,  I  assure 
you,  very  much  so  in  fact.  Oh,  yes,  my  hat !  No 
wonder  you  were  alarmed.  I  must  look  sort  of 
savage  and  no  mistake.  Why,  I  left  that  back  a 
ways.  I  hadn't  any  real  use  for  it,  you  know. 
You  will  perceive  that  I  have  dispensed  with  all 
superfluities  of  dress,"  he  continued,  glancing 
deprecatingly  at  his  bare  feet  and  talking  just  to 
try  to  talk  away  the  woe  in  her  eyes.  He  was 
breathing  heavily  from  his  late  exertions.  "And 
so  it  was  you,  little  woman,  and  not  Henry, 
after  all,  who  had  it  in  for  me.  Who  ever  would 
have  thought  that  you  desired  my  blood?"  he 
rallied  her,  softly. 

"  Don't!  "  she  besought,  so  sorrowfully  that  he 
desisted  and  was  silent.  "Why  have  you  left 
Jack?"  she  accused,  suddenly,  calling  him  to  ac 
count  unshrinkingly  because  of  a  revival  of  that 
old  suspicion  that  there  had  been  something  he 
ought  to  have  told  them.  She  took  firm  hold  of 
her  self-control  so  that  she  should  betray  no  sign 
of  weakness  before  this  man  who  might,  if  he 
would,  have  prevented  Jack's  murder.  '  You 
have  broken  your  promise.  I  did  wrong  to  trust 

[269] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

you.  Your  leaving  him  is  in  keeping  with  — 
other  things  that  you  have  done.  Why  are  you 
here  ?  Why  do  you  not  go  on  your  way  ?  We  do 
not  need  you  —  Jack  and  I." 

"I  left  Rosebud  in  charge  at  the  Broken  Key," 
said  Tom,  steadily,  though  he  bowed  his  head  to 
conceal  the  pain  that  gripped  him  at  this  second 
manifestation  of  aversion  and  suspicion.  "We 
thought  that  you  were  in  great  danger  because 
we  saw  Henry  Hoffman  taking  your  trail.  So 
I  came  and  she  stayed.  What  has  become  of 
Henry?"  he  asked,  dully,  his  eyes  straying  for  a 
moment  to  the  calico  pony  feeding  by  the  road 
side,  flecks  of  foam  still  lurking  about  his  neck 
and  flanks. 

"  I  killed  him,"  said  Josephine,  in  a  sort  of  calm 
despair.  "  I  slipped  into  the  woods  there  and  hid 
and  waited  and  when  he  came  around  the  corner, 
I  shot  him.  He  is  dead.  I  dragged  him  in  there 
out  of  sight  —  he  was  very  heavy  and  he  killed 
Jack,  but  I  had  to  do  it,  did  n't  I  ?  There  was  no 
other  way.  So  I  carried  him  there  —  but  oh,  I 
did  hate  him  so  and  when  I  had  to  put  my  arms 
around  him,  I  shut  my  eyes  tight  to  keep  from 
shooting  him  again.  He  is  in  there  now.  He  is 
so  helpless.  I  shot  him,  you  know.  He  is  lying 

[270] 


JOINING   THE   CHASE 

down  on  the  wet  grass  and  his  blue  eyes  are 
closed  —  they  were  just  like  a  baby's,  weren't 
they?"  she  questioned  irrationally. 

Tom  could  not  speak,  but  he  took  the  cold 
hands  in  a  strong,  warm  clasp  and  held  them 
thus. 

"And  then  I  heard  some  one  else  coming.  I 
thought  at  first  it  was  a  dream,"  she  continued, 
"  it  sounded  just  as  things  sound  in  a  dream. 
But  after  a  while,  I  knew  that  it  was  not 
a  dream  and  it  came  to  me  all  of  a  sudden  that 
it  must  be  Frank  LaDue.  I  do  not  know  why  it 
was  not  Frank  LaDue,  do  you?  He  hated  Jack 
so.  It  must  have  been  LaDue  —  but  it  was  not 
—  it  was  you  —  and  so  I  shot  at  you." 

"But  you  did  not  hit  me  at  all,  Josephine," 
said  Tom,  quietly.  "Your  bullet  lies  out  there  on 
the  prairie  somewhere.  It  is  a  lucky  thing  for  me, 
I  am  thinking,  that  Louis  has  his  limitations  as 
instructor  in  the  canny  art  of  firearms.  Come, 
show  me  where  you  laid  him." 

She  withdrew  her  hands  quickly  from  his  grasp 
and  led  the  way  to  the  place  where  the  blue-eyed 
boy  lay.  Upon  reaching  the  spot,  she  turned 
away  in  a  strong  revulsion  of  feeling,  for  the  man 
had  struggled  to  a  partial  sitting  posture  and 

[271] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

was  leaning  against  the  same  cottonwood  tree 
that  had  sheltered  Josephine  while  she  waited  for 
those  other  footsteps  to  come  nearer.  He  was 
pale  from  loss  of  blood  but  composed  and  almost 
apologetic  in  his  attitude  of  feeble  reproach. 

"Gee!  But  you  can  shoot,  girl,"  he  said,  glanc 
ing  dubiously  at  Burrington,  as  they  approached. 
"Or  were  you  aimin'  at  me?"  he  questioned, 
jocularly.  "  I  Ve  known  women  folks  before 
that  could  hit  almost  anything  they  were  n't 
aimin'  at.  What  made  you  do  it,  girl?  What 
have  I  ever  done  to  you?  Ain't  you  Jack  Car 
roll's  sister?  Why,  we're  neighbors,  didn't  you 
know  that?  Considerin'  that  fact,  it  wasn't 
just  white  for  you  to  treat  me  like  this  —  now, 
was  it?" 

"Shut  up,  Henry,  will  you?"  interrupted 
Tom,  sternly.  "We  do  not  want  any  of  that 
nonsense.  It  won't  do  you  any  good  and  you 
are  only  wasting  breath.  We  know  all  about 
everything.  Just  keep  still,  will  you?" 

He  knelt  as  he  spoke  to  ascertain  the  amount  of 
injury  the  man  had  sustained. 

"  Sure  thing,  Tom,  if  you  say  the  word.  But  I 
certainly  would  like  to  know  why  the  girl's  got 
it  in  for  me." 

[272] 


JOINING  THE   CHASE 

"You  —  you  —  were  following  me,"  accused 
Josephine,  chokingly,  "and  you  shot  at  me." 

"Don't  you  ever  believe  it,"  protested  the  man, 
earnestly.  "I  was  just  ridin'  to  town  to  see  Boss 
Frank.  I  was  ridin'  like  the  devil,  I  admit  that, 
but  that 's  just  my  way.  I  was  raised  a  cowboy, 
you  know.  I  just  shot  to  attract  your  attention, 
so  you  would  stop  and  wait  for  me.  I  never 
dreamed  I  was  scarin'  you.  Why,"  he  continued, 
turning  to  Tom,  "many  a  time  I  Ve  seen  her 
about  the  island  or  crossin '  that  big  gulch  on  their 
place,  drivin'  the  cows  home,  singin'  purty-like 
to  herself,  with  the  sunset  on  that  yeller  hair." 
His  cheeks  flushed  and  he  brushed  his  arm  before 
his  eyes.  "Frank  always  said  it  was  n't  a 
woman's  work,"  he  concluded  abruptly. 

"Why  did  you  kill  Jack?"  demanded  Jose 
phine,  suddenly. 

"Is  that  boy  dead?"  he  asked  with  intense  agi 
tation. 

"You  ought  to  know.  You  killed  him,"  said 
Josephine,  steadily. 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  have  against  me," 
said  Henry,  slowly.  "I  never  chased  you  and 
I  never  killed  your  brother.  I  was  coming  to 
town  to  see  Frank  about  haulm '  some  wood  over 

[273] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

to  the  Agency.  I  never  killed  nobody  in  my  life 
—  never  killed  nothin'  but  just  coyotes  and  the 
likes  of  them." 

"It  will  be  better  not  to  say  anything  more 
now,  Miss  Carroll,"  advised  Burrington,  for 
mally,  as  he  arose  to  his  feet.  "Leave  him  to 
me.  I  will  take  care  of  him.  It  will  be  better 
for  the  sheriff  to  come  here  for  him.  He  is  in 
pretty  bad  shape.  You  will  have  to  go  on  alone 
after  all;  but  nothing  can  hurt  you  now.  See 
Sheriff  Dennison  the  very  first  thing.  Tell  him 
to  bring  three  or  four  men  with  him.  You  must 
remain  in  Velpen.  Go  directly  to  the  hotel  when 
you  have  seen  the  sheriff  and  I  will  send  my 
mother  in  to  you  as  soon  as  I  get  back.  I  will 
go  with  the  officers  to  the  Broken  Key  and  come 
back  with  Jack.  It  will  be  far  better  so.  You 
will  mind  me,  won't  you?"  he  asked,  with  some 
thing  of  appeal  struggling  through  the  business 
like  formality  of  his  directions. 

She  shook  her  head,  springing  into  the  saddle 
seemingly  without  seeing  his  out-stretched  hand. 

"I  tell  you  that  you  must,"  he  said  authori 
tatively.  "It  will  be  far  better  so.  Your  long 
ride  would  count  for  nothing,  as  we  are  coming 
directly  back.  You  are  worn  out  and  —  you  will 

[274] 


JOINING   THE   CHASE 

need  all  of  your  strength.  If  —  you  do  not  trust 
me,  I  will  let  the  men  go  to  the  Broken  Key 
alone.  You  will  stay?" 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  silently,  then 
turned  and  slipped  out  into  the  road  and  he  knew, 
with  an  irritating  sense  of  his  utter  powerless- 
ness  to  control  her,  that  she  would  return  with 
the  men  who  were  to  come  to  bear  John  Calhoun 
Carroll  within  the  sheltering  arms  of  the  law, 
which  had  struck,  for  him,  too  late. 


[2751 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  BROKEN  KEY  DESERTED 

A  LL  that  was  mortal  of  the  young  Southerner 
was  to  be  taken  back  to  the  old  home  and 
laid  to  rest  in  the  ancient  burial  ground  where 
so  many  generations  of  his  people  were  sleep 
ing.  Geoffrey  Goodman,  the  last  of  kin  on  the 
mother's  side,  was  to  meet  the  sad  little  procession 
at  Sioux  City.  So  Josephine  had  arranged  and 
so  her  plans  were  carried  out. 

When  the  spring  wagon  that  was  to  carry 
Josephine  and  the  Burringtons  to  Velpen  was 
driven  down  through  the  Gap  on  the  opposite 
shore  and  a  vibrant  hail  had  sounded  to  the  wait 
ing  ones  in  the  claim  shanty  of  the  Broken  Key, 
Rosebud  arose  from  her  posture  of  silent,  gloomy 
dejection  by  the  table,  which  was  still  strewn  with 
the  papers  and  magazines  that  were  never  to  be 
read,  and  glided  wordlessly  toward  the  open 
door.  In  her  movements,  there  was  a  haunting, 
new  hint  of  the  gait  of  the  women  of  the  Dako- 
tahs,  the  burden  bearers  of  their  race.  Hitherto, 
her  step  had  always  been  unusually  elastic  and 
untrammelled.  Josephine  followed  her. 

[276] 


THE  BROKEN  KEY 

"I  wish  you  were  going  with  us,  Rosebud," 
she  said,  resting  her  right  arm  around  the  Indian 
girl's  shoulders.  "Won't  you  change  your  mind 
and  go?" 

Rosebud  shook  her  head.  Her  dark  hair  was 
braided,  an  unusual  mode  for  it  of  late,  and  fell 
below  her  waist  in  two  long  plaits. 

"The  mother  of  the  Seven-up  goes  with  you. 
There  is  no  need  of  Onjijitka,  the  Indian  girl." 

"I  do  need  you,  Rosebud,"  said  Josephine, 
soberly.  "Do  you  forget  how  few  my  friends 
in  Dakota  are?  I  shall  miss  you  when  I  get 
on  the  train.  I  shall  look  for  you  and  you  will 
not  be  there.  It  will  be  very  lonely  for  me, 
Rosebud." 

The  girl  hesitated.  There  were  just  the  three 
present.  Tom  had  gone  down  to  the  landing  to 
get  the  boat  in  readiness.  It  was  hard  for  her  to 
speak  her  thoughts  to  Josephine  alone  —  im 
possible  in  the  presence  of  the  stately  mother  of 
Tom,  however  kindly  the  elder  woman's  attitude 
toward  her  had  always  been.  Her  habit  of  re 
pression,  inherited  from  many  generations,  pre 
vented  any  manifestation  of  feeling  and  held  her 
outwardly  unresponsive  to  Josephine's  appeal. 

"Onjijitka  is  sorry,"  she  said  at  last,  slowly, 
[277] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

"but  she  cannot  go.  Is  Josephine  Carroll  coming 
back  to  the  plains  country?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  think  so,"  said 
Josephine,  with  a  little  shudder.  "You  are 
changed,  Rosebud.  I  cannot  understand  why, 
but  somehow  you  seem  different.  Oh,  I  wish,  I 
wish  that  you  were  coming  South  with  me,"  she 
cried,  suddenly,  throwing  her  arms  around  Rose 
bud's  neck  and  kissing  her  passionately.  '  You 
knew  him,  too!  Do  not  forget  me,  Rosebud! 
Maybe  I  shall  come  back.  Good-bye!  Good 
bye!" 

"  Good-bye,  Josephine,"  said  Rosebud,  but  still 
she  did  not  go.  There  was  something  else  she 
must  say  if  she  could.  She  shifted  her  position 
uneasily.  Mrs.  Burrington  was  watching  her 
curiously.  She  tried  to  appear  stolidly  indif 
ferent  to  the  parting  because  of  this  frank  in 
spection  and  she  tried  to  make  herself  go  and 
leave  unsaid  that  which  something  was  forcing 
her  to  say. 

"We  must  go,  Josephine,  dear  child,"  said 
Mrs.  Burrington,  at  last.  "Tom  is  waiting." 

"You  are  right,"  replied  Josephine,  strangely 
loath  to  go  and  leave  Rosebud  standing  there 
alone,  although  she  could  not  have  explained 

[278] 


THE  BROKEN  KEY 

any  reason  for  the  feeling  of  reluctance.  "We 
must  go.  Good-bye,  Rosebud." 

"  Good-bye,  Josephine,"  said  Rosebud,  and 
then  it  came,  slowly  and  with  difficulty,  what  she 
had  so  long  wanted  to  say.  "If  you  will  come 
back  to  the  Broken  Key,  I  will  leave  Two  Hawks 
and  come  and  live  with  you.  I  will  do  the  man's 
work  —  the  ploughing,  the  planting,  and  the  har 
vesting,  the  milking  and  the  riding  to  cattle. 
You,  Josephine,  you  can  keep  the  house  — 
pretty.  I  —  I  —  cannot  bear  to  think  that  cob 
webs  will  grow  over  the  door  of  the  Broken  Key." 

She  did  not  wait  for  an  answer  but  slipped 
away  and  soon  disappeared  into  the  timber,  her 
moccasined  feet  gliding  forward,  catlike,  as  she 
pursued  her  way  —  not  in  the  direction  of  the 
outlying  hut  of  Two  Hawks,  who  had  established 
himself  practically  on  the  very  borders  of  the 
Reservation  and  who,  under  the  constant 
and  untiring  promptings  of  his  educated  step 
daughter,  was  attempting  to  farm  in  an  easy, 
shiftless  fashion, —  but  right  out  into  the  heart 
of  the  illimitable  and  shimmering  prairie,  where 
the  spirits  of  the  ancient  Sioux  still  lurked  in  the 
rustling  grasses,  and  the  sighing  winds,  and 
the  white  clouds  that  drifted  sometimes  caress- 

[279] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

ingly  over  the  sunny  plains  where  they  used  to 
dwell. 

"What  a  strange  girl  Rosebud  is,"  said  Mrs. 
Burrington.  She  closed  the  little  square  window 
carefully  and  drew  the  blinds  close.  "Why  do 
you  suppose  she  refused  to  go  to  Velpen  with 
us?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Josephine,  dreamily. 
"I  am  grateful  to  her  for  her  offer.  It  would  be 
a  great  sacrifice  on  her  part.  The  sisters  at 
Notre  Dame  have  written  to  her  to  come 
back  there  and  help  teach  the  young  children. 
She  had  almost  decided  to  do  so.  I  do  not 
know  what  she  will  do  now.  She  is  differ 
ent,  don't  you  think  so,  too?  I  wish  that  I 
had  asked  her  to  come  sometimes  and  —  sweep 
down  the  cobwebs  from  the  door.  I  think  she 
would  have  done  it  for  me.  Come,  let  us  go, 
Mrs.  Burrington,"  she  continued,  restlessly.  "It 
is  so  sombre  in  here  with  the  blinds  drawn.  Oh, 
please,  throw  away  those  flowers  first  —  they 
would  be  so  dead  if  I  should  ever  come  back.  We 
are  ready  now,  are  we  not?" 

They  closed  the  door  behind  them  and  locked 
it. 

"Jack  never  locked  it  —  poor  Jack,"  whispered 

[280] 


THE  BROKEN  KEY 

Josephine,  blindly.  "  Good-bye,  Broken  Key. 
You  will  never  be  the  same  any  more."  Then  she 
turned  and  walked  resolutely  away  down  the 
narrow  trail  to  the  wagon  road. 

Tom  accompanied  her  to  Sioux  City.  He  did 
not  ask  her  permission.  He  went,  despite  the 
keenness  with  which  he  felt  her  late  and  wholly 
unexpected  attitude  of  suspicion  toward  him, 
simply  because  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  the  only 
one  to  go.  The  Broken  Key  was  an  isolated 
claim.  The  Carrolls  had  formed  few  intimate 
friendships ;  but  it  was  generally  understood  that 
a  close  bond  of  mutual  liking  existed  between 
the  household  of  the  wealthy  Seven-up  and  the 
aristocratic  young  Southerners.  People  took  it 
for  granted,  therefore,  that  Tom  Burrington 
would  do  all  there  was  to  do.  He  had  no  choice 
but  to  bury  his  pain  and  his  pride  for  the  time 
being  and  to  assume,  as  unobtrusively  as  might 
be,  the  responsibilities  of  the  sad  journey.  And 
Josephine  ?  If  he  went  against  her  will  she  gave 
no  sign.  She  was  alone.  This  man  had  professed 
to  be  Jack's  friend.  Jack  had  trusted  him  — 
stay  —  had  Jack  trusted  him  altogether  —  with 
out  reservation  and  without  question?  From 
her  heart  she  believed  so  and  yet  —  Jack  had  said, 

[281] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

"I  am  afraid,  Josephine,  that  Tom  knows." 
Thinking  thus,  she  cried  her  old  cry,  "If  he 
knew,  why  did  he  not  tell  us?"  and  it  was  an  ex 
ceedingly  bitter  cry  now.  But  she  could  not 
forbid  his  attendance  upon  the  body  of  his  friend 
just  because,  without  real  foundation  even,  she 
had  begun  to  mistrust  the  motives  that  had  ac 
tuated  him  in  his  constant  friendliness  toward 
both  her  and  Jack.  Would  she  have  forbidden  it 
if  she  could?  Because  of  the  relief  that  she  ex 
perienced  on  account  of  the  grave,  helpful  way  in 
which  he  went  about  the  performance  of  his  self- 
imposed  duties,  and  with  a  fine  perception  held 
himself  personally  aloof  from  her  companionship, 
she  wished,  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  that 
she  might  banish  once  and  for  all  that  disquiet 
ing,  constantly  recurring  suspicion,  fight  it  as 
she  would,  that  Tom  knew  something  that  might 
have  saved  Jack's  life  had  he  told  it  in  time. 
She  was  grateful  for  the  comfort  his  masterful 
presence  gave  her,  and  she  tried  hard  not  to  ask 
herself  that  bitter  question  —  but  she  could  not 
altogether  forget. 

Mrs.  Burrington  had  been  compelled  to  let  the 
train  slip  over  the  rails  eastward  bound  leaving 
her  standing  upon  the  platform  alone.  There 

[282] 


THE  BROKEN  KEY 

was  Louis  and  there  were  manifold  duties  be 
sides  which  claimed  her  divided  but  scrupulously 
honest  attentions.  When  she  climbed  into  the 
wagon  for  her  return  journey  to  the  Seven-up, 
she  felt  very  lonely  and  like  an  old  woman,  and 
longed  unaccountably  for  companionship;  even 
the  companionship  of  the  Indian  girl,  upon  whom 
she  had  looked  with  such  curious  aloofness  but 
yesterday,  would  have  been  thrice  welcome  to 
day. 

"  Drive  home  quickly,  Charlie,"  she  ordered, 
"but  do  let  us  go  by  way  of  White  River." 

'  Wlty,  White  River  's  on  a  gallopin'  rampage, 
ma'am,"  said  the  cowboy,  emphatically.  "There 
won't  be  any  crossin'  there  for  two  weeks,  any 
way.  There  ain't  no  other  way  but  just  to  go 
by  Frank  LaDue's  and  cross  at  the  ferry." 

"If  we  must,  we  must,"  said  Mrs.  Burrington, 
resignedly.  "I  had  hoped  not  to  pass  anywhere 
near  there  —  not  to-day.  The  look  in  that  girl's 
eyes  will  haunt  me  as  long  as  I  live.  But  there, 
hurry  along.  What  has  to  be,  has  to  be,  and 
Louis  is  crying  his  heart  out  this  minute  for  that 
boy  who  is  gone.  Hurry  along,  do,  please, 
Charlie." 

At  Sioux  City,  the  little  party  was  met  by 

[283] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

Geoffrey  Goodman,  who  immediately  assumed 
charge  of  all  the  arrangements  and  Tom  Bur- 
rington's  further  services  were  not  required.  He 
watched  the  train  glide  away  from  the  station  of 
the  "jumping-off-place,"  as  Jack  had  dubbed  it 
once  in  happy  raillery,  his  lively  fancy  so 
naming  it  because  here  was  reached  the  limit  of 
through  train  service,  and  more  especially  be 
cause  here  came  all  who  would  take  the  trail  for 
the  northwest  country,  and  then  he  turned  away 
with  a  heavy  heart. 

Josephine's  plans  reached  their  culmination 
when  a  gray-haired  man  and  a  lonely  girl,  accom 
panied  only  by  a  handful  of  gentlefolks,  repre 
sentatives  of  other  old  and  failing  families,  and 
a  scattering  of  white-headed  colored  people,  for 
mer  retainers  who  had  spent  their  youth  in  the 
service  of  the  grandfather  of  this  generation,  and 
perhaps  by  the  brooding  spirits  of  the  dead,  stood 
within  a  green-walled  enclosure  where  ivy  and 
Virginia  creeper  ran  riot,  where  the  crepe  myrtle 
with  its  luxuriance  of  pink  blossoms  made  spots 
of  pretty  color  in  restful  contrast  to  the  varying 
shades  of  rank  green,  where  there  was  no  jarring 
insistence  of  the  ostentatious  new  to  caricature 
the  solemn  slumber  of  centuries,  and  watched  the 

[284] 


THE  BROKEN  KEY 

laying  away  of  the  last  male  Carroll.  He  had 
hearkened  to  the  lure  of  the  great  West  that 
was  opening  to  the  steady  progression  of  the 
American  people  and  had  fallen  by  the  way,  an 
imcanonized  martyr  to  civilization,  the  costliest 
thing  on  earth,  next  to  the  sin  of  the  world. 


[285] 


CHAPTER   XIX 

HENRY   CONFESSES 

\K  7"HEN  Burrington  returned  to  Velpen,  the 
cowboy  Mason,  with  a  led  horse,  was  wait 
ing  for  him. 

"Put  the  beast  in  the  stable,  Charlie,  will  you, 
and  then  ride  on  out  home.  Tell  mother  that  I 
shall  not  be  there  for  two  or  three  days.  I  have 
business  that  will  keep  me  in  town  for  at  least 
that  length  of  time.  Keep  things  going,  boy.  So 
long." 

He  turned  and  walked  up  the  inclined  street 
with  long,  rapid  strides.  It  seemed  strangely 
desolate,  uncommonly  crude,  despite  the  glory  of 
the  late  sunlight  that  shone  slantingly,  warmly, 
and  cheerfully,  upon  the  side  to  the  east  and 
filtered  through  the  crevices  between  the  western 
line  of  wooden  buildings;  despite  the  unusual 
number  of  saddled  bronchos  standing  patiently  in 
front  of  saloon  and  hotel,  and  the  service-scarred 
buckboards  wedged  in  alongside.  The  news  of 
the  tragedy  had  gone  forth  to  the  surrounding 
country  where  the  farmer  and  the  homesteader 
held  sway  and  had  re-crossed  the  river  and  pene- 

[286] 


HENRY    CONFESSES 

trated  into  the  very  heart  of  the  range  country, 
as  well,  so  that  the  little  border  cow  town  was 
crowded  with  the  curious,  the  interested,  the 
knowing,  the  inquiring,  the  condemnatory,  the 
neutral,  and  the  quietly  elated;  for  there  were 
those  who  resented  heartily  the  west-of-the-river 
encroachments  of  the  homesteader.  These  were 
all  met  together  to  try  the  culprit,  to  judge  him, 
to  hang  him  or  to  imprison  him  for  life,  or  may 
hap  to  release  him;  and  during  the  procedure 
of  the  mock  trial,  whiskey  flowed  profusely  and 
cigarettes  were  rolled  and  consumed,  seemingly 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  But  the  unusual  air 
of  excitement  rampant  in  the  street,  and  the 
unaccustomed  noisy  hilarity  that  issued  from  cer 
tain  popular  places  of  resort  and  which  was 
engendered  by  the  sociability  which  in  turn  traces 
its  source  to  much  strong  whiskey,  affected  the 
young  ranchman  depressingly,  and  in  his  heart 
was  a  poignant  yearning  for  the  girl  whose  ab 
sence  made  the  coming  evening  and  all  that  it 
shadowed  drearily  sad,  unspeakably  lonely. 

He  had  not  gone  far  when  he  met  Dennison, 
the  sheriff. 

"How  is  your  prisoner?"  he  asked  him, 
abruptly. 

[287] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

"Pretty  well,  considerin'." 

"He  will  recover?" 

"Sure  thing.  A  little  flesh  wound  is  all  that 
ails  him.  He  's  the  halest  and  heartiest  deader 
ever  I  saw,  damme.  And  the  girl  thought  she 
had  done  for  him.  If  that  ain't  sure  a  good 
one!" 

"Has  he  said  anything?" 

"You  mean  about  things  —  in  general?"  asked 
the  sheriff,  with  provoking  elaboration. 

"I  mean  about  the  shooting,"  said  Tom,  curtly. 

"  Not  a  word.  He  's  glum  as  a  buckin'  broncho 
whenever  the  subject 's  broached  and  as  uncom 
municative  as  a  mischief -hatchin'  Injun." 

"May  I  see  him  to-night,  Dennison?" 

"  Should  n't  wonder.  Don't  believe  he 's 
hankerin'  to  see  you,  though,  Tom.  I  don't,  for 
a  fact." 

"Has  he  expressed  himself  to  that  effect?" 

"Well,  no,  I  can't  say  that  he  has,  exactly. 
He  used  to  outride  for  you,  did  n't  he,  before  he 
went  to  choppin'  wood?" 

"He  was  in  my  employ  for  almost  a  year.  He 
was  a  good  hand  at  cattle.  Shall  we  go  to  the 
jail  now?" 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  get  no  supper  first?1" 

[288] 


HENRY   CONFESSES 

asked  the  leathery-skinned  Sheriff  Dennison,  in 
surprise. 

"I  am  not  hungry  and  it  is  getting  late.  It 
may  be  that  a  conversation  with  Henry  will 
whet  my  appetite.  Come,  shall  we  go  there  at 
once?" 

A  few  minutes  later  Dennison  closed  the 
ponderous  door  of  the  jail  upon  Burrington  with 
the  good-natured  remark,  "Time  unlimited,"  and 
sauntered  leisurely  away.  The  failing  light  that 
made  its  way  through  the  barred  window  fell 
dimly  upon  the  room  and  its  occupant.  The 
prisoner  was  lying  flat  upon  his  comfortless 
couch  and  he  did  not  look  up  at  the  sound  of  the 
closing  door  nor  the  sheriff's  parting  words 
of  gratuitous  permission  for  an  indefinite  stay. 
Tom  approached  the  prostrate  figure. 

"  Hello,  Henry,"  he  said,  in  a  friendly  greet 
ing. 

He  had  determined,  for  the  best  interests  of  the 
cause  upon  which  he  was  henceforth  bent,  to  sup 
press  in  himself  all  weakening  and  dangerous 
dwelling  upon  thoughts  of  "the  long  chase"  dur 
ing  the  present  conversation,  and  had  fortified 
himself  well  for  the  coming  combat  of  his  wit 
against  the  other's  taciturnity  and  of  reason 

[289] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

against  his  own  personal  inclination,  which  was 
up  in  arms  to  do  physical  violence  to  this  mockery 
of  a  man  who  lay  there  before  him  so  sullenly. 

"Hello,"  vouchsafed  the  prisoner,  laconically. 

"How  is  the  gun-shot?"  asked  Tom,  drawing 
the  only  chair  in  the  room  to  the  bedside  and  seat 
ing  himself.  "It  is  healing  nicely,  Dennison  tells 
me.  Do  you  suffer  much,  Henry?" 

"Enough,"  was  the  ungracious  response. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,  won't  you,  Henry?" 
asked  Tom,  coming  to  the  point  with  the  intui 
tive  perception  that  something  lay  heavy  on  the 
young  fellow's  mind.  There  was  a  hunted  look 
in  his  eyes  and  he  fingered  the  coverlet  restlessly. 

"Why  should  I?  You  ain't  no  friend  o' 
mine,"  said  Henry,  bluntly. 

"Do  not  be  too  sure  of  that,"  said  Tom,  slowly. 
"Maybe  I  don't  exactly  love  you.  I  do  not  think 
you  really  expect  that,  after  all  that  has  hap 
pened.  But  you  know  me  pretty  well,  do  you 
not  ?  I  am  capable  of  befriending  a  man  without 
loving  him.  You  are  pressingly  in  need  of  a 
friend,  my  boy,  don't  you  realize  that?  Did  I 
ever  play  you  dirt  while  you  were  at  the  Seven- 


up?' 


"You  sure  never  did,"  protested  the  prisoner, 

[290] 


HENRY   CONFESSES 

earnestly.  He  propped  himself  up  on  his  pillow 
after  giving  his  supposedly  unwelcome  visitor 
this  assurance  and  turned  haggard  eyes  upon  him 
for  the  first  time.  "You  were  always  square 
with  us  boys,"  he  added,  gratefully. 

"  I  always  meant  to  be  and  —  mean  to  be.  You 
are  pretty  young,  are  you  not?  I  do  not  believe 
that  you  are  a  day  over  twenty-one.  I  cannot 
promise  you  the  leniency  of  the  court,  Henry, 
but  I  think  that  you  will  do  well  to  make  con 
fession.  I  think  that  your  age  and  evident 
contrition  and  —  willingness  to  do  all  that  is  in 
your  power  to  help  along  the  cause  of  justice, 
even  to  the  giving  up  of  yourself  as  an  earnest 
of  your  sincerity,  will  be  taken  into  consideration. 
I  say  this  to  you  in  all  honesty.  I  am  telling  you 
nothing  that  I  do  not  have  faith  in,  myself,  and 
my  years  and  experience  are  many  more  than 
yours." 

"Why  are  you  takin'  all  this  trouble?  If  you 
think  I  am  guilty,  why  do  you  want  an  .easy  sen 
tence  for  me?"  asked  Henry,  unexpectedly. 

"Because  I  believe  that  there  is  one  more  to 
blame  than  you  are." 

"What  if  I  tell  you  that  I  did  n't  do  it  — and 
I  did  n't  —  "  said  Henry,  feverishly.  "  You 

[291] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

could  n't  do  nothin'  to  me  then.  How  could  you 
prove  that  I  done  anything  that  I  never  done, 
I'd  like  to  know  ?  You  're  just  workin'  me  to  give 
myself  up.  It  shows  how  plumb  weak  you  are 
on  evidence  against  me." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  what  I  shall 
do?  "  asked  Tom,  rising.  '  Well,  I  will  tell  you, 
since  you  ask  me.  I  am  a  pretty  good  witness 
against  you,  Henry,  myself.  I  shall  begin  by 
telling  the  court  and  the  jury  about  that  little 
affair  in  the  gulch,  you  know." 

He  paused  to  note  the  effect  of  his  unexpected 
onslaught.  The  prisoner  sat  straight  up  and  in 
his  answer  was  a  quick  and  burning  excitement. 

"My  God,  Tom!  That  was  a  gray  wolf  you 
shot  at!" 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  Tom,  coolly, 
well  pleased  at  this  unmistakable  corroboration 
of  his  suspicion  as  to  the  identity  of  the  man  in 
the  gulch. 

"Why,  I  met  the  wench  in  the  woods  the  next 
day  and  she  told  me,"  he  lied,  unconvincingly. 

"And  what  ails  your  wrist  that  you  keep  it 
bound  up  so  carefully? "  pursued  Tom,  relent 
lessly.  He  did  not  fail  to  note  the  glance  of 
startled  rage  which  Henry  bestowed  first  upon 

[292] 


HENRY   CONFESSES 

the  challenged  wrist  and  then  upon  his  ques 
tioner.  "You  evidently  have  some  foundation 
for  that  seemingly  random  shot  about  the  gray 
wolf,"  continued  Tom,  thoughtfully.  "I  did  n't 
see  you  that  morning  down  at  the  woodpile  when 
I  explained  the  subterfuge  to  —  Mr.  Carroll." 
He  could  not  bring  himself  to  speak  the  old, 
familiar  monosyllabic  name  "Jack"  in  this  pres 
ence.  "But  doubtless  you  were  there  somewhere 
in  hiding.  Well,  I  shall  embellish  that  tale  some, 
Henry.  I  shall  tell  how  I  saw  Josephine  Carroll 
go  down  into  the  valley  —  " 

"Don't,  Mr.  Burrington,"  interrupted  Henry, 
huskily.  "I  can't  stand  it.  I'll  see  the  sun  on 
that  girl's  shinin'  hair  just  before  she  went  down 
into  the  valley  to  my  dyin'  day.  She  was  singin' 
along  soft-like  to  herself  —  I  could  hear  her  just 
as  plain  —  the  evenin'  was  so  still.  When  I 
heard  the  first  sound  of  rollin '  dirt  that  the  leader 
of  the  herd  had  dislodged  when  he  started  down 
the  path,  I  knew  the  time  had  come  and  I 
crouched  down  in  a  little  side  washout  and 
waited.  The  first  heifer  was  well-nigh  up  t  'other 
bank  before  she  came  to  the  edge  of  the  gulch. 
Oh,  Lord !  She  was  purty !  Her  yeller  hair  was 
so  bright  and  her  hat  was  off  and  she  was  singin' 

[293] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

so  soft  and  sweet.  I  never  wanted  to  kill  a 
woman,  nohow."  His  voice  trailed  off  into 
mournful  bitterness.  "I  don't  know  why  in  hell 
I  ever  said  I  would.  I  must  have  been  crazy. 
Anyway,  I  just  could  n't  do  it  when  the  time 
come.  Why,  I  ain't  a  plumb  brute,  Mr.  Burring- 
ton.  I  —  just  could  n't  kill  that  purty  girl  ridin' 
down  that  steep  bank  so  unconscious-like  and 
singin'  so  soft.  She  was  n't  lookin'  for  foul  play. 
Why  should  she  have  been?  She  had  never  done 
any  harm  to  anybody.  Not  a  mite  in  all  the 
world  —  and  I  just  could  n't  do  it.  I  tried  — I 
tried  hard  —  I  was  afraid  not  to.  I  tried  three 
or  four  times.  I  pointed  my  rifle  at  her  true  all 
those  times,  but  I  could  n't  pull  the  trigger.  If 
she'd  glanced  my  way  —  or  stopped  her  singin'- 
or  showed  any  scare  —  I  might  have  done  it,  but 
she  did  n't  do  any  of  those  things.  She  just  kept 
on  her  way  so  purty  and  unsuspectin'  and  I 
could  n't  do  it.  I'd  lower  every  time.  But  I  had 
to  do  it,  so  I  tried  again  and  —  this  time  I  pulled." 
In  the  deep  dusk,  Tom  clenched  his  hands  while 
perspiration  started  from  his  body  till  he  prickled 
with  the  damp  heat  of  it.  "But  —  someway — 
I  don't  know  how  it  happened  —  I  done  it  so 
quick  —  I  slipped  a  finger  in  between,  and  the 

[294] 


HENRY   CONFESSES 

hammer  could  n't  reach  the  cap  of  the  cartridge 
through  my  finger,  so  there  was  n't  any  concus 
sion  after  all.  Then  you  came,  and  I  slipped 
away  and  crossed  the  rock  reef  back  to  the 
island." 

He  seemed  exhausted  by  his  impulsive  recital 
and  lay  back  on  his  pillow,  breathing  heavily. 
Tom  was  silent  a  moment,  waiting  for  him  to 
recover;  then  he  asked,  gravely: 

"Why  did  you  shoot  Mr.  Carroll,  Henry?" 

"I  had  to,"  said  the  young  fellow,  "there  was 
no  other  way  out  of  the  mix-up." 

"Why  did  Frank  LaDue  want  him  out  of  the 
way? "  asked  Tom,  searchingly. 

"Ask  him,"  said  Henry,  with  a  prompt  return 
to  his  former  attitude  of  dogged  reserve. 

Tom  changed  his  tactics  immediately.  He  had 
already  discovered  that  the  most  satisfactory  re 
sults  from  this  interview  were  to  be  derived  from 
keeping  in  close  touch  with  the  subject  of  Jo 
sephine. 

"I  cannot  understand,  Henry,"  he  began, 
meditatively,  "why,  if,  as  you  say,  you  had  thor 
oughly  made  up  your  mind  that  you  could  not, 
under  any  circumstances,  make  away  with  the 
life  of  a  woman,  you  yet  gave  such  monstrous, 

[295] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

inhuman  chase  to  Josephine  Carroll  so  soon  after 
ward.  It  strikes  me  as  rather  an  anomalous  pro 
ceeding  in  view  of  your  recent  and  reiterated 
declaration." 

The  man  hesitated  for  a  moment ;  then  he  put 
this  question  to  his  interlocutor,  suddenly,  unex 
pectedly  : 

"Will  you  give  me  your  word  of  honor  that 
you  won't  give  him  away — if  I  tell  you  all  about 
it?" 

"Won't  you  tell  me  —  without  the  promise?" 

"Not  one  word,"  returned  Henry,  sullenly. 

"Then  I  promise  —  until  you  yourself  release 
me  from  the  pledge." 

The  simple  promise  needed  no  bolstering  of 
words.  Henry  asked  for  none,  but  proceeded 
at  once: 

"I  don't  care  for  myself  —  you're  dead  on  to 
me;  besides,  I  can't  get  that  yeller-haired  girl 
out  of  my  mind.  But  he  —  Frank  —  why,  he  'd 
kill  me  if  he  knew  I  'd  told  on  him.  I  don't  know 
how  he  came  to  get  such  a  hold  on  me.  I  met 
him  for  the  first  time  soon  after  I  went  to  the 
Broken  Key  to  help  out  while  he  —  Carroll,  you 
know  —  was  laid  up  with  a  broken  leg.  I  wish 
to  the  Lord  I  'd  never  set  eyes  on  him!  I  wish 

[296] 


HENRY   CONFESSES 

to  the  Lord  I  'd  never  a-left  the  old  Seven-up. 
The  Carrolls'  cows  took  to  strayin'  over  to  the 
island  and  I  run  across  him  one  day  when  I  was 
over  there  lookin'  for  a  runaway  heifer.  He 
asked  me  where  I  was  from  and  seemed  nice 
and  friendly.  When  I  told  him  I  was  a  sort  o' 
rollin'  stone  and  had  been  in  lots  o'  places  since 
I  was  knee-high-to-a-grasshopper,  he  said  if  I 
ever  got  tired  o'  my  job  at  the  Seven-up,  why, 
he  had  a  good  place  for  a  likely  feller  like  me 
that  would  pay  more  than  herdin'  cattle.  We 
talked  considerable.  I  remember  his  goin'  on  a 
good  deal  about  settlers  comin'  in  and  spoilin' 
the  ranges  for  the  cattlemen.  That  sounded  all 
right  to  me,  for  they  were  makin'  the  same  sort 
o '  kick  down  in  Texas,  where  I  started  from,  and 
they  were  talkin'  the  same  sort  o'  stuff  all  along 
the  line.  I  Ve  even  heard  you  sort  o'  cuss  the 
luck  yourself,  Tom,  though  you  always  'lowed 
it  had  to  come.  And  then  he  began  on  Miss  Car 
roll.  He  asked  me  what  I  thought  o'  her,  and 
asked  me  wasn't  she  a  bold  jade,  though?  I 
thought  he  was  just  foolin',  but  it  seemed  as  if 
he  'd  begun  to  hate  the  girl  even  then.  He  sure 
hated  her  a  plenty." 
"Why,  Henry?" 

[297] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

"You  '11  have  to  ask  him,  Tom,"  said  Henry, 
evasively.  "I  never  understood  exactly.  He 
was  always  talkin'  about  spoilin'  the  ranges. 
That  was  all  bluff,  though.  He  did  n't  give  a 
tinker's  damn  whether  the  ranges  was  spoiled  or 
not,  or  how  many  homesteaders  crossed  the  river, 
providin'  they  did  n't  get  too  neighborly  and 
settle  down  so  close  to  him  as  to  interfere  with 
his  plans.  That  range  howl  was  pure  bluff. 
1  did  n't  even  know  he  had  any  cattle  at  first.  I 
think  he  was  mad,  too,  because  them  Carrollses 
were  gettin'  all  that  nice  bottom  land.  He 
seemed  possessed  to  keep  people  off  'n  it.  I 
reckon  he  thought  he  'd  get  it  sometime  himself 
by  some  hook  or  crook.  He  was  always  callin' 
the  girl  names  because  she  was  tryin'  to  do  a 
man's  work.  And  then  when  she  'd  got  the  evi 
dence  agin  him  about  rustlin'  that  there  milch 
cow,  I  thought  the  man  'd  lose  his  mind  he  was 
that  mad.  And  then  he  began  on  me.  Frank  's 
a  bad  man,  Tom.  He  's  a  devil.  I  wish  I  'd 
never  gone  to  work  for  him.  He  never  let  up 
on  me.  I  'm  a  foolish  sort  o'  feller,  and  I  always 
want  to  do  what  anybody  asks  me  to;  it  always 
seems  as  if  that 's  what  I  want  to  do,  too,  what 
they  want  me  to  do,  specially  while  I  'm  talkin' 

[298] 


HENRY   CONFESSES 

to  'em.  I  don't  seem  to  know  how  to  get 
around  it." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Come!"  said  Tom,  impatiently. 

The  door  was  opened  slightly  and  the  jailer's 
head  was  thrust  into  the  room. 

"Hey,  Tom!  The  old  man  's  back  and  wants 
to  know  if  you  're  goin'  to  talk  there  all  night? 
Ain't  you  most  through?" 

"Tell  Dennison  that  we  are  almost  through 
and  that  he  need  not  worry,"  said  Tom,  briefly. 

"You  ain't  afraid?"  asked  the  man  facetiously. 

"No,"  said  Tom,  more  curtly  than  before. 

"Shall  I  bring  a  light?" 

"No." 

The  door  banged  shut. 

"He  said  he'd  give  me  half  the  island  and  a 
team  and  wagon  beside,"  went  on  Henry,  wea 
rily,  "if  I  'd  exterm'nate  the  whole  bunch.  He 
said  he  'd  go  up  for  sure,  for  cattle  stealing,  when 
the  court  came  round  —  the  girl  had  the  evi 
dence —  and  he  wanted  me  to  put  plasters  over 
their  mouths  before  then,  so  's  they  could  n't  blab. 
When  I  asked  him  why  he  did  n't  do  it  himself, 
he  said  they  'd  jump  on  him  right  away,  but  that 
no  one  would  ever  think  o'  me.  He  said  if  they 

[299] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

did  that,  he  had  a  stand-in  with  the  sheriff  and 
nothin'  would  happen  to  me.  He  talked  that 
stuff,  day  after  day,  till  I  promised  —  seemed  as 
if  I  'd  go  plumb  mad  if  something  did  n't  happen 
to  stop  his  everlastin'  dingin'.  I  was  to  do  away 
with  the  girl  first  —  he  hated  her  so.  I  was  to  do 
it  at  the  gulch.  But  —  I  could  n't.  Gosh-all- 
hemlocks!  but  he  was  mad  when  he  came  back 
from  Westover  and  found  I  had  n't  done  it.  So 
at  last  I  promised  to  go  to  the  house  and  shoot 
'em  both.  He  went  to  Velpen  that  night  so  's 
he  could  prove  an  alibi  or  something  like  that, 
and  just  as  it  was  gettin'  dusk  I  crossed  over  and 
crept  up  to  the  house  and  peeked  in  at  the  west 
window.  There  was  the  girl  again  with  her  yeller 
hair  piled  on  top  o'  her  head  and  she  had  on  a 
big  blue  apron  —  "  his  voice  faltered.  "Seems 
as  if  I  can't  never  get  away  from  seein'  her 
movin'  around  so  sweet  and  lovin'-like.  I 
could  n't  do  it  then.  She  sat  down  after  a  bit. 
Seemed  as  if  she  was  goin'  to  read  the  paper.  I 
could  n't  see  her  no  more  then  —  she  was  too  close 
to  the  wall,  I  guess.  The  kid  was  settin'  on  the 
other  side  o'  the  table,  and  I  could  see  him  all 
right  —  and  the  brother  —  I  could  see  him  plain — 
he  was  settin'  on  the  door  step  bathin'  his  feet  — 

[300] 


HENRY   CONFESSES 

and  —  and  —  oh,  it  was  awful."  He  paused  for 
breath.  He  was  growing  weak  from  the  strain 
of  his  woful  story. 

"Tell  me  only  the  most  important  things  to 
night,  Henry,"  said  Tom,  gently.  "Leave  the 
rest  for  another  time." 

"It  seemed  as  if  I  couldn't  do  it,"  continued 
Henry,  deliriously.  "I  tried  five  times.  One 
time  he  looked  right  at  me,  it  seemed  like,  with 
his  big  tired  eyes,  brown  like  the  girl's.  I  was 
five  feet  back  and  in  the  shadow,  and  I  know  he 
did  n't  see  me,  really,  but  I  could  n't  any  more 
have  pulled  the  hammer  with  those  eyes  lookin' 
toward  me  than  I  could  have  shot  myself  right 
that  minute.  Once  a  screech  owl  startled  me  — 
I  thought  at  first  it  was  a  spirit.  The  other  times, 
I  just  could  n't  do  it.  But  at  last  I  did.  I  shot 
true  and  straight  right  through  the  window,  and 
he  never  said  a  word.  He  just  fell  over  easy-like 
and  lay  still.  I  never  killed  nothin'  before,"  he 
said,  pitifully,  "but  just  critters  and  coyotes.  I 
ran  around  to  the  woodpile  to  see  if  I  could  n't 
muster  up  nerve  enough  to  shoot  the  girl  through 
the  door,  but  when  she  came  —  I  —  could  n't.  I 
went  back  to  the  island  and  I  guess  I  did  n't 
know  just  what  I  was  doin'.  I  did  n't  strike  the 

[301] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

road  and  went  plungin'  along  through  the  mud 
and  water — there  was  back  water  from  the  rise — 
and  finally  I  heard  some  shootin'.  I  thought  I 
was  done  for,  but  I  got  into  the  house  all  right. 
I  could  still  hear  the  shootin',  and,  Tom,  I  heard 
that  shootin'  all  night  long.  I  never  went  back — 
I  stayed  right  there  in  the  house,  but  I  suppose 
she  thought  I  was  hangin'  round,  and  that  plucky 
girl  just  kept  shootin'  all  night  long,  and  it 
was  so  dark  and  it  rained  after  a  while,  and 
she  was  all  alone  with  just  the  kid.  She  never 
stopped  till  it  got  light.  I  got  scared  then  to 
have  Frank  come  back  and  find  her  still  alive  - 
he  'd  have  so  much  rather  it  had  been  her  'stead 
o'  him  if  only  one  was  gone;  so  after  a  while 
I  picked  up  my  gun  and  started  back,  but  then 
I  saw  you  ridin'  like  the  devil,  so  I  knew  she  must 
have  sent  the  kid.  I  went  back  and  changed  my 
shoes  —  I  could  n't  ride  in  those  things,  and  I 
thought  maybe  I  'd  have  to  bolt.  When  you 
came  over  to  the  island,  I  was  hidin'  in  the  timber, 
and  when  I  saw  Josephine  ridin'  off  alone,  I  — 
took  after  her.  I  was  afraid  o'  what  Frank 
would  say  when  he  came  back.  I  was  afraid  he  'd 
kill  me.  But,  Tom,  I  don't  believe  I  'd  have 
done  it,"  he  continued.  '  I  don't  believe  I  could 

[302] 


HENRY   CONFESSES 

have  brought  myself  to  have  done  it,  after  all.  I 
was  n't  trying  to  hit  her  when  I  shot." 

"I  believe  you,  Henry,"  said  Tom,  with  grave 
kindness.  "You  are  worn  out.  I  will  leave  you 
now.  But  I  will  come  again  in  the  morning. 
Don't  you  worry.  I  always  knew,  Henry,  that 
there  was  some  one  more  to  blame  than  you. 
Good-night." 

True  to  his  word,  he  came  again  in  the  morn 
ing.  He  was  bent  upon  obtaining  release  from 
his  pledge  of  yesterday.  It  was  a  gigantic  un 
dertaking.  Henry  was  possessed  of  a  strange, 
unreasoning  fear  of  his  employer,  coupled  with 
a  stubborn  loyalty  that  held  strongly  to  the  opin 
ion  that  treachery  to  an  accessory  was  the  mean 
est  kind  of  meanness.  But  Tom  persevered  and 
finally,  after  much  useless  argument  and  persua 
sion,  he  said,  very  seriously,  that  Frank  LaDue 
at  large  was  a  constant  menace  to  the  life  and 
well-being  of  Josephine  Carroll,  and  at  the  men 
tion  of  her  name  Henry  was  as  a  child  again. 
He  gave  his  permission  to  act,  readily,  almost 
eagerly.  Without  this  permission,  Tom  Burring- 
ton  would  have  held  the  confidence  as  sacred  as 
if  sealed  with  the  seal  of  the  Roman  Confessional. 
As  he  arose  to  depart,  the  intensity  of  relief  de- 

[303] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

picted  upon  his  face  was  so  great  that  he  seemed 
years  younger  and  he  strode  to  the  door  with 
much  of  the  old  spring  in  his  step.  When  he 
reached  the  door,  he  heard  his  name  called  in  a 
hesitating,  apologetic  sort  of  way  and  turned 
quickly,  dreading  a  recall  of  the  promise  that 
insured  him  power  to  prosecute  his  hearty  desire 
to  put  the  arch-offender  where  he  could  no  longer 
offend  and  where  justice  would  be  meted  out  to 
him  as  he  had  measured. 

"Say,  Tom,"  Henry  was  saying,  confusedly, 
"it  ain't  as  if  I  was  gettin'  off,  myself,  by  givin' 
him  away.  I  could  n  't  do  that.  I  know  I  'm 
in  for  it.  I  ain't  tryin'  to  get  off  by  turnin'  agin 
him.  You  know  that,  don't  you?  But  I  reckon 
the  real  reason  for  his  not  wantin'  any  one  round 
was  because  of  the  use  he  put  that  there  island 
to.  It  will  bear  investigating  for  sure.  And 
there  's  a  dugout  there,  almost  under  the  Car- 
rolls'  noses,  where  you  '11  find  the  rest  of  your 
horses  —  if  you  're  quick  about  it.  You-all  have 
been  mighty  slow.  I  should  n't  wonder  if  that 
young  Injun  buck,  Bear  Heart,  the  one  who  's 
after  Rosebud,  you  know,  had  got  ahead  o'  you, 
after  all.  He  's  been  on  the  trail  for  some  time 
and  she  's  been  helpin'  him.  Them  Injuns  ain't 

[304] 


HENRY   CONFESSES 

got  no  use  for  Frank.     You-all  ain't  been  very 
smart,  and  that 's  a  fact." 

Tom  went  directly  to  the  State's  Attorney;  a 
complaint  was  filed  and  a  warrant  issued  for  the 
arrest  of  Frank  LaDue,  of  LaDue  Island,  on  the 
charge  of  murder. 


[305] 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  END  OF  THE  LONG  CHASE 

rpHREE  weeks  later,  toward  the  close  of  a 
long,  warm  afternoon  in  mid-summer,  Tom 
Burrington  was  riding  musingly  homeward  over 
the  Seven-up  trail.  He  had  that  day  received  a 
letter  from  Josephine  Carroll  in  answer  to  a 
formal,  business  one  of  his  own  which  he  had 
written  to  her  shortly  after  her  departure.  In 
it,  he  made  brief  mention  of  the  temporary 
care  he  had  assumed  of  the  Broken  Key  stock 
and  added  that,  subject  to  her  approval,  of 
course,  he  had  so  arranged  it  that  they  should 
graze  with  the  Seven-up  herds  until  such  time 
as  she  should  have  made  her  plans  for  their  ul 
timate  disposal.  He  was  also  taking  care  of  the 
White  Slave,  the  boy  whom  Jack  had  be 
friended.  "Do  not  be  too  hard  on  the  boy,"  he 
wrote.  "  He  is  very  young.  He  heard  the  shoot 
ing  and  hid  in  the  woods  all  night.  He  was  afraid 
to  go  home  with  the  cows  and  afraid  to  go  any 
where  for  fear  of  meeting  some  of  the  old  gang 
whom  he  had  turned  against."  He  had  pre- 

[306] 


THE    END    OF   THE   CHASE 

sumed  to  act  thus  without  her  authority  because 
she  had  left  so  hurriedly  that  there  had  been 
neither  time  nor  opportunity  to  make  definite 
provision  for  their  welfare  during  her  absence. 
What  were  her  plans  concerning  the  two  claims? 
It  would  be  well  for  her  to  come  to  some  decision 
within  a  reasonable  length  of  time  or  they  might 
be  jumped  and  her  rights  contested.  They  were 
considered  desirable  claims,  and  it  was  very  prob 
able  that  they  would  not  be  allowed  to  stand 
tenantless  long  unless  she  blocked  any  future 
trouble  by  conforming  strictly  to  the  letter  of 
the  law  in  regard  to  homesteads,  the  sooner,  the 
better.  As  she  doubtless  knew,  her  brother  had 
lived  upon  his  quarter  section  a  sufficient  length 
of  time  to  permit  her,  as  sole  heir,  to  commute 
and  obtain  a  patent  on  his  land  without  its  in  any 
way  interfering  with  her  own  homestead  rights. 
She  could  then,  if  she  so  desired,  have  a  shanty 
erected  and  live  upon  her  own  claim.  Mean 
while,  he  awaited  her  commands  concerning  her 
immediate  business  affairs  and  especially  in  re 
spect  of  her  concurrence  or  non-concurrence  in 
the  steps  he  had  taken  for  the  temporary  relief 
of  the  Broken  Key  stock. 

It  had  been  a  cold  letter,  perhaps,  under  the 
[307] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

circumstances,  but  he  had  so  disliked  to  do  what 
he  had  been  compelled  to  do  without  her  permis 
sion  and  under  the  ban  of  her  displeasure.  His 
pride  had  rebelled  heartily,  but  he  could  not  help 
himself.  There  was  no  one  else  to  be  responsible 
for  the  effects  the  dead  boy  had  left,  and  Jack  had 
been  his  friend,  and  —  he  loved  her  —  Josephine. 
He  loved  her  so  much  that  nothing  she  could  do 
or  say  now  could  dispossess  that  great  love, 
though,  of  course,  now,  he  could  never  tell  her  so. 
That  time  was  past.  The  time  had  come  when 
he  was  looking  upon  the  canvas  face  to  face,  and 
she  was  not  there.  But  he  loved  her,  and  because 
of  that  he  had  swallowed  this  much  of  his  pride 
that  he  must  suffer  her  probable  misconstruction 
of  his  motives  in  order  that  when  she  was  ready 
to  take  up  again  the  burden  of  living  that  would 
be  hard  enough  for  her,  poor  Josephine,  for  a 
long  weary  while,  she  might  find  that  she  had  not 
been  altogether  alone  and  that  she  might  take  up 
her  burden  without,  at  least,  the  handicap  of  the 
neglect  or  mismanagement  of  the  material  things 
of  her  life.  After  all,  was  she  so  much  to  blame 
for  having  thus  taken  her  stand  alone,  account 
ing  all  against  her  because  the  plots  formed  in 
opposition  to  her  and  hers  had  been  conceived  in 

[308] 


THE    END    OF   THE    CHASE 

such  utter  darkness  and  mystery,  and  had  arrived 
at  their  infamous  growth  in  such  profound  se 
crecy,  and  yet  withal  had  so  pervaded  the  very 
atmosphere  she  breathed  and  had  so  hemmed  her 
about  on  every  side  that  she  could  have  no  power 
to  discriminate  and  say:  this  man  is  and  that 
man  is  not  my  friend  ?  Was  she  so  much  to  blame 
then?  In  his  heart  he  knew  that  an  unfriendly 
feeling  toward  the  Carrolls  as  homesteaders  had 
rankled  in  the  breasts  of  many  of  his  fellow  cattle 
men.  He  knew  that  this  feeling  of  hostility, 
powerful  because  men  of  power  held  it,  was 
catered  to  and  promulgated  by  popular  favor, 
and  that  it  was  this  that  had  made  it  next  to 
impossible  for  Jack  to  get  native  help  to  assist 
him  in  farming  his  land  and  thereby  establishing 
a  position  with  which  the  people  were  so  thor 
oughly  out  of  sympathy;  but  he  also  knew  in 
his  heart,  that,  though  most  of  the  cattlemen 
would  have  been  honestly  relieved  and  more  than 
glad  had  young  Carroll  lost  heart  and  found  it 
advisable  to  relinquish  his  claim  and  try  his  for 
tune  elsewhere,  and  even  might  not  have  been 
above  assisting  him  to  this  wise  conclusion  in 
divers  innocent  ways,  there  was  not  one  among 
them  who  would  have  dreamed  of  adopting  the 

[309] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

extreme  measure  for  ridding  the  country  of  his 
presence;  and  that  they  were  few  who  were  not 
inexpressibly  shocked  and  indignant  at  the  tragic 
outcome  of  their  dissatisfaction.  Not  at  the 
doors  of  the  cattlemen  could  the  terrible  tragedy 
be  laid;  but  could  Josephine  know  this?  Could 
she  be  brought  to  believe  it?  "It  has  come  to 
me  that  you  knew  something  that  you  would  not 
tell  us,"  she  had  said.  Was  the  suspicion  unnat 
ural  in  the  light  of  circumstances  ?  He  had  known 
that  their  coming  was  unwelcome  to  the  majority 
of  the  ranchmen  —  but  so  had  Jack,  in  the  end. 
Could  he  have  dreamed  that  Jack's  life  would  be 
the  price  ?  He  had  known  that  pluck,  endurance, 
tact,  and  a  never  flagging  patience  on  the  part 
of  the  young  homesteader  would  finally  win  for 
him  immunity  and  place,  that  no  arbitrary  means 
would  be  taken  for  his  expulsion.  Could  he  have 
dreamed  of  the  miserable  LaDue  complication? 
Ah,  but  ought  he  not  to  have  dreamed  of  it? 
Had  he  not  heartily  disliked  the  very  thought 
of  the  man's  nearness  to  her  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  seen  Josephine?  Had  he  ever  respected  La- 
Due  or  given  him  the  credit  for  an  atom  of  in 
tegrity?  Thus  he  blamed  himself  harshly  and  he 
had  been  sore  beset  between  his  love,  his  wounded 

[s  10] 


THE   END    OF   THE   CHASE 

pride,  and  his  own  feeling  of  personal  blame 
when  he  had  written  that  letter,  coldly,  perhaps. 
And  she  had  answered  thus : 

MY  DEAR  MR.  BURRINGTON  : 

I  thank  you  for  taking  charge  of  the  Broken 
Key  stock  and  am  sorry  that  my  thoughtlessness 
made  it  necessary  for  you  to  put  yourself  to  so 
much  trouble  on  my  account.  Since  you  have 
been  so  good,  however,  I  shall  further  tax  your 
generosity  by  asking  you  to  continue  your  super 
vision  until  I  have  come  to  some  decision  as  to 
my  future  course.  I  shall  try  to  decide  soon,  so 
that  I  may  relieve  you  of  what,  I  am  afraid,  must 
be  an  unpleasant  task  —  the  caring  for  the  inter 
ests  of  a  homesteader.  Forgive  me  if  I  am  harsh. 
Indeed,  I  am  grateful.  It  is  only  that  I  cannot 
see  the  light. 

You  ask  me  if  I  intend  to  go  back.  I  will  let 
you  know  as  soon  as  I  know  myself.  I  do  not 
think,  however,  that  I  shall  ever  go  back.  I  can 
not  bear  to  think  of  it  —  and  I  am  afraid.  My 
brother's  murderer  is  still  at  large.  The  inter 
ests  of  the  cattlemen  are  seemingly  in  direct 
opposition  to  such  a  step  on  my  part.  I  have 
no  friends  to  help  me.  I  am  alone,  and  I  am  a 
woman,  and  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  fight  it 
out.  If  my  brother  were  here,  I  should  never 
give  up  —  never  —  to  the  arrogance  that  would 
deny  me  my  right;  but  he  is  gone,  and  so  what 
is  the  use  ?  Like  him,  I  am  very  tired  and  it  is  not 
worth  while. 

In  a  few  days  at  most  I  hope  to  be  able  to 

[311] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

give  you  instructions  as  to  the  disposal  of  my 
stock.  My  uncle  joins  me  in  thanking  you  for 
your  kindness  to  us. 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

JOSEPHINE  CARROLL. 


Cold,  too,  this  letter  of  Josephine's,  and  still 
doubtful  of  him;  but  was  she  so  much  to  blame? 
As  she  had  said,  "I  cannot  see  the  light."  Ah, 
well,  what  she  thought  could  make  no  difference 
as  to  his  part  in  life  henceforth.  That  part  was 
to  bring  under  the  noose  of  the  law  Jack's  mur 
derer,  who  was  still,  as  Josephine  had  said,  at 
large.  This  thing  he  would  do  if  it  took  him 
until  his  life's  end;  for  Jack's  sake,  for  Jo 
sephine's  sake,  for  his  own  sake,  for  the  honor  of 
the  cattle  country.  So  he  threw  up  the  head  that 
the  coldness  of  Josephine's  letter  had  bowed  in 
sadness  and  rode  on. 

He  had  dwelt  incessantly  ever  since  it  had 
been  discovered  that  Frank  LaDue  was  not  at 
home  on  the  island,  and,  furthermore,  that  pains 
taking  search  had  failed  to  disclose  his  present 
whereabouts,  upon  that  chance  remark  of  Henry 
Hoffman's,  that  Frank  LaDue  had  boasted  of 
a  "stand-in"  with  Sheriff  Dennison,  and  he  won- 

[312] 


THE   END   OF   THE   CHASE 

dered  if  it  could  be  true.     The  thought  had 
chafed  him  unutterably. 

There  was  a  new  man  at  the  ferry.  The  boat 
had  been  found  several  days  after  the  tragedy 
some  distance  below  Ole  Johnson's  place,  drawn 
up  securely  into  the  slack  water  of  an  indentation 
that  cut  into  the  sandy  drift  below  the  chalk-rock 
bluffs.  With  what  object  in  view  the  owner  of 
it  had  made  so  unusual  a  landing,  one  that 
smacked  so  strongly  of  a  desire  for  concealment, 
was  not  easy  of  divination,  especially  when  one 
took  into  consideration  the  idea  conveyed  by 
Henry  Hoffman's  assertion  that  LaDue  rather 
courted  publicity  than  otherwise  for  his  move 
ments  immediately  antedating  and  during  the 
night  of  the  shocking  tragedy.  But  the  boat 
was  there,  and  however  awkward  and  inadequate 
its  service,  there  was  an  urgent  need  of  it  on  the 
old  trail,  and  the  patrons  of  the  road  were  agreed 
that  it  must  be  returned  to  its  accustomed  quar 
ters.  It  was  a  ticklish  undertaking  thus  to  tam 
per  with  the  effects  of  a  vindictive  outlaw,  but 
there  was  no  hesitation  and  but  little  precaution 
in  the  performance  of  it.  As  Ole  Johnson  said 
with  a  fine  unconcern: 

[313] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

"Let  him  shoot  and  be  damned,  the  skunk,  and 
we  '11  ferret  him  out  by  the  smell  of  his  powder," 
and  the  rest  had  ratified  the  defiance  with  hearty 
unanimity. 

So  the  boat  was  rowed  laboriously  back  against 
the  high-water  current  and  lodged  again  at  its 
old  moorings,  where  another  surprise  awaited  the 
neighbors,  who  had  thought  they  knew  the  big, 
fair,  reticent,  self-centred  Norseman,  for  he 
volunteered  good-naturedly  to  be  within  hail  on 
certain  days  of  the  week  to  assist  the  crossing 
of  the  ranchmen  who  lived  on  the  other  side.  He 
was  waiting  for  Burrington  now,  leaning  con 
tentedly  against  the  bank  and  chewing  tobacco 
with  a  serene  indifference  to  any  possible  danger 
that  might  be  lurking  for  him  anywhere  about 
because  of  his  cavalier  handling  of  another  man's 
goods. 

"Nothing  doing,  I  suppose,  Ole?"  asked  Tom, 
lightly,  as  he  mounted  his  horse  after  their  slow 
and  wearisome  crossing. 

"There  is  nothing  doing,  no,"  acquiesced  the 
Norseman. 

"Nevertheless,  Ole,  I  think  you  had  better 
keep  a  pretty  sharp  lookout,"  advised  Burring 
ton,  seriously.  "He  has  an  ugly  disposition  and 

[314] 


THE   END   OF   THE   CHASE 

would  doubtless  find  a  real  sport  in  potting  both 
you  and  that  tub  full  of  holes  in  mid-stream  if  the 
notion  struck  him." 

"Y,ou  think  he  is  about  this  place?"  inquired 
Ole,  with  phlegmatic  unconcern,  as  he  prepared 
to  make  himself  comfortable  under  a  shady  elm. 
The  water  had  long  since  crept  up  to  the  timber 
line  so  that  he  had  not  far  to  go. 

"Who  knows?"  said  Tom,  gloomily.  "Where 
is  he  then?  Are  n't  you  going  back  to-night,  Ole? 
It  is  late." 

"I'll  wait  a  bit.  Them  Injuns  are  somewhere 
on  the  island  —  Bear  Heart  and  that  half-breed 
girl  of  Two  Hawks.  They  seem  to  be  hanging 
round  most  of  the  time.  The  girl  told  me  to  wait 
a  little  while." 

"Funny,"  thought  Tom.  "I  wonder  why 
Rosebud  is  going  back  to-night." 

The  sun  was  very  low  when  Tom  rode  slowly 
past  the  little  log  house  whimsically  called  the 
Broken  Key.  The  day  had  been  insufferably  hot. 
Even  yet  the  heat  radiated  in  warm  waves  from 
the  generous  earth  which  would  continue  to  give 
of  its  fulness  long  after  the  sun  had  gone  down. 
But  it  was  not  like  the  glare  of  the  zenith-riding 
sun  of  mid-day.  Tom  took  off  his  heavy  hat  to 

[315] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

cool  his  moist,  red-creased  forehead  and  flicked 
it  thoughtfully  back  and  forth  before  his  heated 
face.  How  deserted  it  all  looked !  Deserted  and 
forlorn!  The  weeds  had  grown  so  rankly  around 
the  woodpile  in  the  three  weeks  as  almost  to  hide 
its  weather-stained  grayness  and  lonesome  look 
of  disuse,  and  the  path  leading  to  it  was  well- 
nigh  obliterated  by  the  crowding  phalanx.  The 
encroachment  unexpectedly  stopped  short  at  the 
rude  lattice  where  Josephine  had  planted  her 
sweet  peas  and  which,  instead  of  having  been 
choked  out  of  existence,  had  already  begun  to 
blossom.  Tom  did  not  wonder  how  the  flowers 
received  water  and  attention.  He  took  their 
presence  altogether  for  granted  in  the  masculine 
way  that  evinces  no  curiosity  until  the  wonted 
has  been  suddenly  blotted  from  his  vision;  but 
he  did  wish  that  Josephine  might  have  been  there 
to  see  this  fructification  of  her  undismayed  effort 
on  the  untried  soil.  And  then  upon  his  brooding 
spirit  fell  a  strange,  new  depression  fraught  with 
vague  forebodings  of  evil  to  come  and  a  man's 
grief  for  the  empty  house  that  had  sheltered  for 
a  little  while  within  its  rough  exterior  a  bit  of 
fair  life  now  passed  from  it  forever.  The  blinds 
were  drawn  at  the  closed  windows,  shutting  out 

[316] 


THE   END    OF   THE   CHASE 

the  heartless  day  from  view  of  the  dead  ashes 
of  the  hearthstone.  Nothing  could  ever  make  it 
the  same  any  more.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  any 
where  while  the  evening  deepened  and  the  win 
dows  shone  with  a  ghostly  reflection  as  the  sun 
sank  at  last  behind  the  hills,  and  when  Tom  rode 
away  from  the  reverie-haunted  melancholy  that 
must  abide  there  forever,  his  eyes  were  wet  be 
cause  of  many  things,  but  principally  because  of 
the  inevitable  sadness  of  the  brief  play  of  the 
Broken  Key,  played  too  soon  and  ended  so  ir 
revocably. 

About  a  mile  beyond,  he  met  Rosebud.  The  girl 
arose  spectrally  from  a  clump  of  plum  trees  bor 
dering  a  ravine  by  the  roadside  and  advanced  to 
meet  him. 

"You  are  to  go  back  at  once,"  she  said,  ab 
ruptly.  She  carried  a  gun  and  looked  brave  and 
determined. 

"Why?"  asked  Tom,  in  astonishment. 

"You  are  not  to  ask  why.  Won't  you  take  my 
word  for  it  and  go  back  to  Velpen  at  once?"  she 
asked,  hurriedly.  "You  can  trust  Onjijitka." 

"  I  have  n't  a  doubt  in  the  world  as  to  that, 
Rosebud,"  said  Tom,  heartily,  "but  you  might 
as  well  understand  right  now  that  I  shall  not  stir 

[317] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

one  step  until  you  have  satisfied  my  curiosity." 

"Ole  Johnson  is  still  at  the  landing,"  she 
pleaded.  "I  told  him  to  wait.  He  thinks  I  am 
going  back,  but  I  was  thinking  of  you  when  I 
told  him  to  wait.  If  you  hurry,  you  will  find  him 
there,  and  he  will  take  you  across." 

"  Come,  Rosebud,  tell  me  what  it  is  all  about," 
demanded  Tom,  peremptorily.  "  You  have  news 
of  LaDue,  have  you  not?  For  God's  sake,  don't 
waste  time.  What  is  it?" 

"  If  you  would  only  go  —  for  Josephine's  sake," 
insisted  Rosebud,  forlornly,  knowing  that  she 
was  beaten,  but  clinging  desperately  to  her  over 
whelming  desire  that  he  should  turn  back. 

"  I  can  better  stay  —  for  Josephine's  sake," 
said  Tom,  gravely,  as  he  dismounted.  "If  you 
convince  me  that  I  do  right  to  retrace  my  steps, 
why,  I  will  surely  do  so.  Is  n't  that  fair,  Rose 
bud?  I  shall  not  stir  until  I  know  what  it  is  all 
about." 

"You  —  you — men  are  all  so  stubborn,"  said 
Rosebud,  with  angry  scorn.  "You  will  never 
listen  to  reason.  It  is  the  same  way  with  Bear 
Heart.  He  could  have  given  LaDue  up  more 
times  than  once,  but  no  —  he  must  be  forever 
trailing  him  to  find  out  about  the  Indian  cattle 

[318] 


THE   END   OF   THE   CHASE 

he  stole.  He  says  he  will  kill  him  himself  when 
he  finds  out  about  them.  Foolish  Bear  Heart! 
What  does  that  matter  since  those  calves  are 
scattered  all  over  the  world  by  this  time  and  he 
never  will  get  them  back?  But  Two  Hawks  is 
getting  old,  and  he  listens  to  the  young  Bear 
Heart,  and  so  what  can  Onjijitka  do?  " 

"You  can  tell  me,  Rosebud,"  prompted  Tom, 
with  gleaming  eyes.  He  had  struck  the  long- 
sought  trail  at  last. 

"Tom,"  she  began,  her  present  impetuosity  in 
striking  contrast  to  her  former  air  of  reluctance, 
"Bear  Heart  heard  Frank  LaDue  boast  last 
night  that  he  was  going  to  waylay  you  to-day  on 
the  road  from  Velpen.  He  said  that  you  were 
the  cause  of  all  his  trouble,  and  that  if  it  were 
not  for  you  Dennison  would  not  dream  of  ar 
resting  him.  He  said  that  it  was  none  of  your 
business,  and  that  he  intended  to  put  a  plaster 
over  your  mouth  this  very  day,  to  pay  you  for 
your  interference.  So  I  am  here  to  tell  you  and 
to  beg  you  to  go  back  before  it  is  too  late.  He 
was  to  go  to  the  island  between  seven  and  eight 
o'clock  and  to  wait  for  you  there,  but  you  are 
earlier  than  he  planned  for.  He  will  be  coming 
along  soon  now.  Do  go!  How  can  you  hesitate?  " 

[319] 


THE  HOMESTEADERS 

"Rosebud,"  asked  Tom,  irrelevantly,  "where 
did  Bear  Heart  see  LaDue?" 

"That  is  Bear  Heart's  secret,"  said  Rosebud, 
steadily.  "But  I  have  his  permission  to  tell  you 
that  he  has  at  last  found  the  dugout,  and  that 
your  horses  are  still  there  and  have  been  well 
cared  for.  So  you  see  LaDue  still  has  friends, 
even  though  you  have  sent  three  of  the  gang  to 
the  penitentiary.  I  am  also  to  tell  you  that  Bear 
Heart  will  drive  your  horses  home  to-night. 
What  you  have  asked  is,  as  I  have  said,  Bear 
Heart's  secret." 

"Maybe  you  are  right,"  said  Tom,  with  intense 
disappointment,  and  giving  little  heed  to  the 
news  of  the  discovered  dugout.  He  had  long 
thought  that  Frank  LaDue  was  only  a  common 
horse  thief  and  cattle  rustler,  and  the  absolute 
proof  of  it  interested  him  but  little  now.  His 
mind  was  bent  on  something  graver  than  thiev 
ing.  So  had  it  been  bent  when  he  rode  to  West- 
over,  outwardly  seeking  his  own  stolen  property 
—  in  reality  trailing  the  man  who,  he  believed, 
meant  no  good  to  Josephine  Carroll.  "  I  am 
afraid,  though,  that  it  looks  bad  for  Bear  Heart. 
Tell  him  that  it  looks  mightily  like  complicity  to 
me  and  will  look  so  to  others,  and  that  it  might 

[sso] 


THE   END    OF   THE   CHASE 

go  hard  with  him  if  his  unlawful  knowledge  is 
found  out  on  him.  I  should  be  sorry.  I  always 
thought  he  was  a  good  Indian." 

Up  went  the  girl's  proud  head  and  her  dark 
eyes  flashed  defiance.  "Bear  Heart  is  a  true  son 
of  the  Dakotahs,"  she  said,  haughtily.  "It  is 
only  when  we  marry  with  the  white  men  that  our 
young  men  steal." 

It  was  a  scathing  rebuke,  and  it  went  home, 
for  with  his  fair  mind  and  unprejudiced  judg 
ment,  Tom  knew  that  much  of  what  she  said  was 
true. 

"Forgive  me,  Rosebud,"  he  said,  simply.  "I 
was  wrong." 

He  vaulted  into  his  saddle. 

"You  are  going  back?"  she  implored,  hope- 
fully. 

"No,"  said  Tom,  with  great  deliberation,  "I 
am  going  forward  to  meet  my  friend  LaDue." 

"I  hoped,"  said  Rosebud,  despairingly,  "that 
he  would  pass  first.  I  was  ready  for  him.  I  was 
going  to  kill  him.  He  is  a  desperate  man.  He  is 
also  a  coward.  He  will  not  meet  you  in  the  road 
like  a  man.  He  will  lie  in  hiding  by  the  way  and 
shoot  you  in  the  back.  I  had  to  plan  that  way — 
to  hide  in  ambush  —  but  that  is  because  I  am  a 

[321] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

girl  and  a  Dakotah,  and  he  is  a  big  strong  man 
and  would  kill  me  as  he  would  a  snake  before  I 
could  even  know  what  he  was  about.  So  I  hid. 
And  he  will  hide.  Tom,  you  must  listen  to  me!" 
she  cried,  passionately. 

"Why,  my  girl,"  said  Tom,  laughingly,  "what 
would  Bear  Heart  think  if  he  knew  that  you  were 
planning  cold-bloodedly  to  put  out  of  ex 
istence  this  man  whom  he  considers  his  own 
just  prey?  Did  you  really  mean  to  do  it?  Bear 
Heart  will  never  forgive  you,  notwithstanding 
that  his  heart  is  set  upon  you." 

"I  could  not  help  that."  There  was  much  dig 
nity  in  the  simple  rejoinder. 

"But  we  are  wasting  too  much  time,"  ex 
claimed  Tom,  suddenly.  "It  is  getting  late. 
You  must  go  home,  Rosebud.  I  have  taken  com 
mand  of  this  affair,  and  I  bid  you  go  home,  and 
go  at  once.  I  shall  ride  on  and  meet  our  man  — 
provided  his  words  were  not  a  vain  boast,  as  I 
am  much  inclined  to  believe  they  were.  You 
need  not  be  afraid  that  he  will  waylay  me.  He 
has  too  much  to  answer  for  already.  Besides, 
he  does  not  dare  to  touch  Tom  Burrington  of  the 
Seven-up." 

He  smiled,  deprecating  his  own  self-esteem. 
[322] 


THE   END   OF   THE   CHASE 

"Promise  me  that  you  will  go  home,  Rosebud," 
he  said. 

"I  will  go,"  she  said,  soberly. 

He  started  forward,  but  came  back  before  he 
had  gone  far. 

"Y,ou  said  you  would  go  home,  didn't  you?" 
he  asked,  doubtfully. 

"  I  said  I  would  go,"  she  responded,  enigmatic- 

ally. 

He  started  again,  stopped,  and  turned  around 
in  his  saddle. 

"  I  have  your  promise?  "  he  called,  confidently. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  he  rode  away. 

Rosebud  stood  still  in  the  road  and  watched 
him  as  he  cantered  up  a  little  knoll  and  disap 
peared  behind  its  yonder  slope.  Then  she  smiled 
—  a  ghost  of  a  vanishing  smile. 

"He  killed  Jack,"  she  said  to  herself,  whisper- 
ingly,  and  with  the  rifle  held  firmly  in  her  arms, 
she  returned  to  the  roadside,  slipped  down  into 
her  old  position  among  the  plum  trees  and  re 
sumed  her  vigil. 

Tom  had  gone  but  a  short  distance  when,  turn 
ing  a  sharp  bend  where  the  trail  swerved  in  order 
to  take  advantage  of  a  capacious  "draw,"  he 
was  suddenly  confronted  by  the  outlaw,  Frank 

[323] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

LaDue,  with  a  revolver  handily  in  play,  who 
seemed  to  have  been  awaiting  his  nearer  approach. 

"  Oh,  it 's  you,  is  it,  Frank?  "  said  Tom,  pleas 
antly. 

"You  are  right  there,  pard,  it 's  me,"  said  La- 
Due,  significantly. 

"You  have  been  causing  your  friends  some 
uneasiness  by  your  long-continued  absence,"  said 
Tom,  smilingly,  but  with  a  watchful  eye. 

"Specially  you,  I  presume?"  asked  LaDue, 
with  an  impious  grin. 

"Especially  me,"  acquiesced  Tom,  imperturb- 
ably. 

'  Well,  here  I  am,"  boasted  LaDue,  grandil 
oquently.  "Now,  what  are  you  goin'  to  do  about 
it?  You  don't  seem  to  be  makin'  no  great  shakes 
o'  palaverin'  over  the  prodigal  —  weepin'  on  my 
neck  and  killin'  the  fatted  calf.  Maybe  I  'm  dull, 
but  I  sure  don't  read  the  signs  that  way." 

"If  I  had  read  —  some  signs  as  easily  as  you 
read  these,  Frank,  one  who  is  gone  might  even 
now  be  here  in  my  place  before  you  to  teach  a 
dastardly  coward  how  to  fight  fair."  Tom's 
voice  vibrated  with  passionate  scorn. 

"  Look  a-here,  Tom  Burrington,  I  don't  stand 
for  no  more  callin'  names.  D  'ye  understand? 

[324] 


THE   END   OF   THE   CHASE 

You  Ve  trailed  me  long  enough  and  I  Ve  turned. 
This  ain't  been  none  o'  your  business  from  the 
start,  but  you  insisted  on  gettin'  into  the  round 
up  without  permit,  so  now  you  '11  have  to  stand 
for  your  share  of  the  shift.  Nobody  asked  for 
your  interference,  damn  you,  Burrington!  What 
is  it  to  you  —  what  has  it  ever  been  to  you,  I  'd 
like  to  know  —  a  private  quarrel  I  had  with  my 
own  enemy?  Do  you  think  you  're  God  A'mighty 
that  you  must  have  a  hand  in  workin'  over  the 
ethics  o'  this  here  cattle  country?  Well,  you  ain't. 
If  it  had  n't  been  for  you  and  your  everlastin' 
bigotry,  I  would  n't  be  sneakin'  round  the  outer 
edges  o'  civilization  now  and  eatin'  snakes  and 
toads,  for  all  it  'd  matter  to  you.  Fortunately 
my  diet  does  n't  depend  upon  you  or  your  move 
ments.  I  have  a  friend  or  two  yet  who  '11  stick 
to  me  long  after  the  coyotes  are  pickin'  your 
bones  —  for  I  am  goin'  to  kill  you,  Tom  Bur 
rington,  I  'm  goin'  to  shoot  you  just  as  I  'd  shoot 
a  pesky  rattler  that  disputed  my  right  o'  way. 
No,  don't  move  your  hand  that  way,  damn  you, 
Tom.  You  ain't  got  no  more  use  for  a  gun  than 
a  poor  little  homesick  doggie  has.  Yes,  I  killed 
Carroll,  I  ain't  any  call  to  lie  about  it  —  'specially 
to  you.  I  'm  glad  I  killed  him.  I  'd  do  it  again 

[325] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

if  I  could.  I  only  wish  I  'd  done  it  sooner.  I 
wish  I  'd  killed  him  the  night  o'  the  blizzard  like 
I  started  out  to  do.  You  'd  found  him  with  a 
hullet  through  his  head  if  I  'd  only  been  sure  o' 
finding  him  in  the  storm.  And  I  wish  you  'd  a' 
been  killed  outright  when  your  saddle  broke  at 
the  ropin'.  I  only  planned  your  defeat  because 
you  were  gettin'  a  little  too  high-headed  for  your 
own  good,  so  to  speak,  and  thought  you  were  big 
enough  to  carry  those  land-grabbers  on  your  own 
shoulders;  but  it 'd  a'  saved  a  heap  o'  trouble 
since  if  you  'd  never  got  your  breath  again. 
You  Ve  been  so  smart  ever  since  that  you  thought 
you  could  overturn  and  reconstruct  the  whole 
moral  plan  o'  the  cow  lands.  But  you  can't. 
It 's  a  bigger  proposition  than  tyin'  a  steer  with 
the  women  lookin'  on  and  clappin'  their  fool 
hands.  This  ain't  a  woman's  country,  my  friend. 
You  Ve  got  to  go  it  alone.  I  have  only  one  re 
gret.  As  I  said,  this  ain't  no  woman's  country. 
If  I  'd  only  killed  that  miserable  girl  before  she 
got  away,  I  would  n't  ask  for  anything  more.  I 
tried  to  —  it  ain't  my  fault  that  I  did  n't  —  hell!" 
This  exclamation  was  called  forth  by  Tom's 
unexpected  move.  Maddened  to  desperation  by 
this  last,  this  venomous  attack  upon  Josephine, 

[326] 


"  The  young  ranchman  dealt  death  fairly  and  truly  to  the  slayer 
of   his  friend  " 


THE   END    OF   THE    CHASE 

he  had  suddenly  dodged  down  behind  his 
horse's  head  and  slipped  from  the  saddle, 
dragging  his  revolver  from  its  holster  during  his 
sliding  transit  to  the  ground.  Almost  simul 
taneously  with  his  violent  outcry,  LaDue  fired, 
but  he  was  disconcerted  by  the  unexpectedness 
of  Tom's  action  and  missed.  Before  he  could 
fire  a  second  time,  Tom's  arm  shot  out  in  front 
of  his  horse,  and  the  young  ranchman  dealt 
death  fairly  and  truly  to  the  slayer  of  his  friend 
so  that  he  fell  from  his  saddle  without  a  word  and 
lay  in  a  still  bunch  upon  the  road,  his  boots  trail 
ing  in  the  dust  of  the  vanishing  cattle  trails. 

"It  had  to  be,"  whispered  Tom,  his  face  set  in 
lines  of  great  and  stern  sadness.  "It  was  his  life 
or  mine." 

"It  is  well,"  said  a  soft,  even  voice  at  his  elbow. 
"I  should  have  done  it,  but  it  is  well.  I  told  you 
that  he  had  murder  in  his  heart." 

"Rosebud!  I  thought  you  had  gone  home!" 

"I  am  going  now,"  she  said,  and  glided  away 
straight  into  the  heart  of  the  trackless  and  dark 
ening  wilderness. 


[327] 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  HOMESTEADER 

rpHERE  were  two  things  in  the  letter  Rosebud 
wrote  soon  after  this  that  arrested  Jo 
sephine's  aimless  drifting  along  in  the  present 
and  called  her  back  from  her  unprofitable  dwell 
ing  in  retrospection.  The  first  thing  of  moment 
was  this : 

"And  now  that  Frank  LaDue  is  dead,  Henry 
Hoffman  safe  for  probably  a  twenty  years'  im 
prisonment,  and  the  island  no  longer  a  runway 
for  stolen  cattle,  thanks  to  Bear  Heart  and  his 
band  of  young  men  who  have  brought  many  dark 
transactions  to  light  and  have  made  it  impossible 
that  any  future  unlawful  proceedings  find  a 
friendly  cover  there,  there  is  peace  along  the 
river,  and  decent  people  can  walk  out  in  daylight 
once  more  without  being  in  dread  of  what  may 
be  lurking  behind  every  tree  in  the  valley  that 
surrounds  them  or  every  turn  in  the  road  that  lies 
before  them.  Ruffianism  is  dead  in  Kemah,  Jo 
sephine.  It  died  with  the  arch-fiend,  Frank  La- 
Due." 

[328] 


THE   HOMESTEADER 

This  word  from  Rosebud  caused  all  fear  for 
her  own  life,  should  she  ever  again  listen  to  the 
lure  of  the  West,  to  fall  away  from  her,  and  the 
lifting  of  the  blanket  horror  was  an  unspeakable 
relief  to  her,  even  though  she  might  never  return 
to  take  advantage  of  the  freer  air  that  would 
grant  her  life  without  hampering  and  dread  con 
ditions.  It  was  a  good  word.  Rosebud  went  on : 

"He  made  a  cloak,  Josephine,  of  the  unfriendly 
feeling  in  the  cattle  lands  toward  homesteading, 
entertained  by  the  stock-raisers  in  general,  and 
which  even  amounted  to  bitter  animosity  in  some 
quarters,  but  he  was  not  in  league  with  them  at 
all.  They  would  not  stoop  to  make  a  tool  of 
such  a  brutal  and  treacherous  villain  as  Frank 
LaDue ;  but  he  assumed  the  cloak  of  their  resent 
ment  to  hide  his  baser  designs  in  running  you  out 
of  the  country,  and  I  think  he  trusted  too  much 
in  the  strength  of  this  resentment,  Josephine.  I 
think  that  he  thought  it  was  so  great  and  so  bit 
ter  as  to  condone  his  fault  and  to  win  for  him 
exemption  from  prosecution,  even  if  his  guilt 
was  discovered;  especially,  since  he  had  relieved 
them  of  all  trouble  and  had  spared  them  blood- 
guiltiness.  But  he  miscalculated  and  was  led 
far  astray.  There  was  even  talk  of  lynch  law,  Jo- 

[329] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

sephine.  The  stockmen  had  absolutely  nothing 
to  do  with  Jack's  murder." 

But  it  was  what  followed  in  Rosebud's  letter 
that  roused  her  fighting  Southern  spirit  from  its 
lethargy  and  sent  her  to  repacking  her  trunks  in 
the  old  purposeful  way: 

"It  is  true,  however,  that  they  were  opposed 
to  your  settling  west  of  the  river.  By  what 
right  were  they  so  insolently  opposed?  But 
they  were  and  are.  Yet  it  is  a  free  country,  and 
there  is  room  for  all.  They  make  of  themselves 
an  allied  band  for  present  gain  and  selfish  per 
sonal  aggrandizement  and  rule  by  force  and  ar 
rogance.  It  is  as  lawless  in  principle  as  when 
lesser  men  band  together  to  steal  horses  or  cattle. 
If  you  will  come  back,  Josephine,  I  will  gladly 
come  to  you  as  I  promised,  and  we,  you  and  I, 
just  two  girls,  will  fight  it  out  together.  Your 
land  is  too  fair  to  loose,  too  rich  in  promise,  and 
to  stay  away  —  that  is  just  what  they  want  you 
to  do,  with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  Tom  Bur- 
rington  of  the  Seven-up.  We  will  force  these 
insolent  men  to  acknowledge  the  justness  of  our 
position  and  wrest  our  right  from  the  greed  that 
would  withhold  it." 

The  Indian  girl  had  touched  the  right  chord. 

[330] 


THE   HOMESTEADER 

Gone  forever  were  the  dreamy  dwelling  in  the 
past,  the  indecision  of  the  present,  and  the  shrink 
ing  dread  of  the  future.  It  was  living  again  to 
feel  the  blood  of  a  fighting  ancestry  pounding 
through  her  veins  once  more.  Jack  had  died  for 
a  principle.  He  had  vindicated  it  with  his  blood. 
Should  it  count  for  naught?  Should  she  let  the 
land  for  which  he  had  given  his  life  slip  away 
from  her  control  because  she,  the  last  of  the  Car- 
rolls,  lacked  the  courage  and  resolution,  the  high 
faith  and  lofty  pride  to  uphold  the  standard  of 
right  against  might  which  had  fallen  from  Jack's 
hands  only  when  he  had  bought  its  immortality 
with  his  life's  blood?  Must  the  red-stained  ban 
ner  be  let  to  trail  in  the  dust  of  cowardice  and 
inaction  for  want  of  a  consecrated  standard- 
bearer,  or  left  for  others  to  bear  it  again  into  the 
heart  of  the  contemptuous  and  overbearing  cattle 
lands  ?  No,  no !  Not  when  it  was  Jack  who  had 
been  the  sacrifice.  She  could  and  would  rise  to 
the  greatness  of  the  trust.  She  not  only  should 
keep  his  land  from  slipping  back  into  the  general 
description  of  unoccupied  government  lands  and 
thereby  hold  it  beyond  the  reach  of  hovering  land 
hawks,  but  she  should  also  snatch  her  own  claim 
from  their  talons.  These  two  things  she  should 

[331] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

do  if  her  own  life  paid  the  price.  She  hated  her 
self  for  her  former  shrinking,  cowardly  inaction, 
and  indecision.  In  August,  the  six  months  of 
grace  given  her  before  she  must  go  to  live  upon 
her  own  claim  would  be  expired.  It  was  high 
time  she  was  about  the  business  of  having  her 
house  built  and  preparations  under  way  for  the 
care  and  comfort  during  the  long  siege  of  the 
coming  Winter  of  her  stock,  of  herself,  and  of 
Rosebud.  So  she  wrote  to  Rosebud  without  the 
loss  of  a  day  and  asked  her  to  open  the  Broken 
Key  and  to  meet  her  at  Velpen  upon  a  certain 
day  in  August  with  Long  Chase.  She  also  wrote 
a  brief  note  to  Tom  Burrington,  thanking  him 
again  for  his  kindly  forethought  and  care,  and 
asking  him  to  return  the  Broken  Key  stock  by 
a  certain  day  in  August,  on  which  date  Rosebud 
would  take  up  her  residence  at  the  Broken  Key 
in  readiness  for  her,  Josephine's  return.  These 
two  letters  written  and  despatched,  Josephine 
went  quietly  about  the  task  of  packing  her  trunks 
for  her  second  flitting. 

It  was  on  a  cool,  sunny,  bracing  day  in  early 
August  that  Ole  Johnson,  with  neighborly  accom 
modation  and  with  infinite  patience  and  labor, 
crossed  the  river  with  his  wagon  and  heavy  team 

[332] 


THE   HOMESTEADER 

to  move  the  household  effects  from  the  log  cabin 
of  the  Broken  Key  to  the  tiny  frame  shanty  that 
had  suddenly  sprung  into  existence  on  the  quar 
ter  north.  The  loaded  wagon  was  creaking  and 
swaying  along  the  level  grassy  way  at  the  foot 
of  the  hills,  with  the  big  blonde  Norwegian 
trudging  by  the  side,  when  Louis  Burrington,  on 
horseback,  cantered  up  to  the  door  of  the  disman 
tled  cabin  and  emitted  a  " Hello,  the  house!" 
with  much  strength  of  youthful  lungs  and  a  re 
sultant  joyous  shrillness  of  intonation.  It  was 
not  his  first  visit  by  any  means,  not  understand 
ing,  and  therefore  wisely  not  accepting,  the  new 
status  of  strained  civility  between  the  once  so  fa 
miliar  houses  of  the  Seven-up  and  the  Broken 
Key. 

Josephine  came  to  the  door  with  a  broom  in  her 
hand  and  with  her  pretty  hair  tucked  into  a  dust 
cap. 

"We  are  too  busy  for  a  social  chat,  chum,"  she 
said,  smiling  a  welcome,  "but  'light  and  come  in 
and  oversee  this  tremendous  affair  of  moving, 
won't  you?  By  and  by,  you  may  saddle  and 
bridle  Long  Chase  for  me  and  escort  Rosebud 
and  me  to  our  new  domicile,  and  I  will  make 
you  a  cup  of  tea  and  you  will  be  the  first  guest 

[333] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

to  receive  hospitality  dispensed  from  the  new 
abode.  Will  you  like  that?" 

"Good  for  you,  Josephine,"  cried  the  boy, 
jumping  from  his  horse  and  accepting  her  fur 
ther  invitation  with  alacrity.  He  followed  her 
to  the  house  and  would  have  sat  down  upon  the 
door  step  but,  bethinking  himself,  flushed  hotly 
and  choked  up,  while  tears  swam  in  his  blue  eyes. 
He  sat  down  on  an  empty  box,  hurriedly.  Jo 
sephine,  too,  shuddered  a  little,  but  she  said  very 
gently: 

"Never  mind,  honey,  we  won't  think  of  it  any 
more,  you  and  I.  Tell  me,  what  have  you  been 
doing  since  I  saw  you  last?  " 

Rosebud,  who  would  not  leave  Josephine  alone 
on  this  last  day,  now  took  advantage  of  the  boy's 
presence  to  strike  across  the  country  on  the  trail 
of  the  slowly  moving  wagon,  so  that  she  might 
be  on  hand  to  help  with  the  unloading  and  per 
haps  be  in  time  to  give  the  house  a  little  home 
touch  here  and  there  before  Josephine  came. 
Two  Hawks  had  put  forth  no  objection  to  his 
step-daughter's  change  of  residence.  He  was 
fond  of  her  in  his  lazy,  uninitiative  way,  but  she 
tried  him  sorely  because  of  her  pride  and  her 
strange  unrest.  He  was  therefore  frankly  re- 

[334] 


THE   HOMESTEADER 

lieved  and  enjoyed  to  the  uttermost  the  respite 
from  the  discontent  and  the  unflagging  persua 
sions  to  a  cleaner,  more  ambitious  life  with  which, 
in  truth,  he  had  been  beset  since  the  day  he  had 
married  the  mother  of  this  strange,  dreamy,  pas 
sionate  creature ;  but  if  she  had  troubled  his  easy 
and  phlegmatic  nature  in  those  earlier  days,  he 
counted  it  as  of  little  worth  as  compared  with  the 
later  time  when  these  young  and  untried  gentle 
folks  had  come  out  of  the  South  to  let  loose  the 
devil  of  reform  in  his  tepee.  So  Two  Hawks 
was  weakly  glad.  As  for  Bear  Heart,  Bear 
Heart  of  the  unconquerable  soul,  his  man  hunt 
ended,  he  went  back  to  the  wide  plains,  drew  his 
blanket  about  him,  and  bided  his  time. 

"It  would  have  been  a  lot  easier  for  you  to 
have  gotten  a  wagon  from  the  Seven-up  than 
for  Ole  Johnson  to  have  to  cross  his  on  that 
clumsy  boat,"  said  Louis,  judicially. 

"You  are  right,"  replied  Josephine,  laying 
aside  her  dust  cap  and  ruffling  up  her  bright  hair 
with  her  hands. 

"Why  didn't  you?"  demanded  Louis,  discon 
tentedly. 

"Oh,  because  Mr.  Johnson  is  my  nearest  neigh 
bor  and  he  was  good  enough  to  offer  his  services," 

[335] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

explained  Josephine,  tranquilly.     "Hadn't  you 
better  go  for  my  horse  now?" 

But  Louis  did  not  know  that  he  was  treading 
upon  dangerous  ground  and  blurted  out  in  sur 
prise  : 

"Why,  you  are  not  half  ready,  Josephine! 
You  can't  ride  in  those  calico  duds,  you  know. 
I  '11  have  Long  Chase  here  in  a  jiffy  when  you 
are  ready  to  lock  up.  Tom  'd  have  offered  his 
services  quick  enough,  too,  only  I  think  —  mind, 
it 's  only  a  think,  Josephine  —  but  I  think  that 
Tom  thinks  you  're  mad  at  him.  He  never  said 
anything,"  continued  the  boy,  loyally,  "I  just 
think.  Gee !  If  our  friend  Ole  had  had  to  depend 
on  the  boat  Tom  had  when  he  went  after  Ole's 
fast  horse,  I  guess  he  would  n't  be  so  flush  scat 
tering  favors  around  so  free  and  easy,"  he  ended, 
grumblingly. 

"What  boat  are  you  talking  about?"  de 
manded  Josephine,  stopping  short  on  her  way 
to  change  the  "calico  duds"  to  which  the  boy  had 
put  forth  such  lofty  objection.  "What  kind  of 
a  boat  did  your  brother  use?" 

"A  leaky  old  tub  so  full  of  holes  that  it  sank 
when  Tom  got  to  the  middle  of  the  river,"  ex 
plained  Louis,  with  unction. 

Isse] 


THE   HOMESTEADER 

"What  did  he  do  then?" 

"  Swam,  of  course.  Did  n't  Rosebud  tell  you 
about  it?  Come  to  think  of  it,  though,  I  guess 
she  did  n't  know,  herself,  what  a  time  Tom  had. 
She  helped  him  find  the  boat,  but  she  'd  gone 
back  when  Tom's  troubles  began.  Gee !  Tom  's  a 
strong  swimmer !  I  '11  bet  anybody  but  him  'd 
have  drowned  two  or  three  times  over  before  he 
got  across.  But,  gee!  That  was  easy  compared 
with  what  came  afterl" 

'  Well,  what  did  come  after?  "  demanded  Jo 
sephine,  with  some  impatience. 

"Why,  the  current  was  so  strong,  he  just 
drifted  and  drifted  down  the  river,  and  when  he 
finally  did  manage  to  get  across  —  what  do  you 
suppose?"  He  paused,  impressively.  "Well, 
sir,  he  had  gone  past  the  Gap,  and  there  was  n't 
any  place  to  crawl  out  at,  'cause  there  were  just 
bare  bluffs  that  stuck  right  down  into  the  water. 
Now  what  do  you  think  of  that?  So  he  just  let 
himself  float  along  till  he  came  to  Ole's.  But 
he  scratched  his  hands  all  up  till  they  bled  a  lot  — 
trying  to  get  out,  I  guess.  Gee  I  He  was  a  sight 
when  he  came  after  mother." 

'  That  is  why  he  was  barefoot,  I  suppose,"  she 
said,  musingly.  "  I  wondered  about  it  afterward." 

[337] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

"You  see,  he  said  he  kicked  off  his  shoes  before 
ever  he  got  into  the  boat  'cause  he  knew  he  'd 
have  to  swim  for  it  sooner  or  later.  I  wish  I 
was  as  brave  as  Tom,"  he  added,  ingenuously. 

"I  think  that  it  was  very  foolhardy  of  him  to 
take  such  a  serious  risk,  knowing  as  he  did,  that 
his  boat  was  absolutely  untrustworthy,"  said  Jo 
sephine,  gravely. 

"Well,  it  was  for  you,  you  know,"  argued 
Louis.  "I  can't  much  blame  him,  I  must  say. 
A  fellow  'd  be  a  chump  who  would  n't  do  a  lot 
more  than  that  for  you,  Josephine,"  he  said,  af 
fectionately. 

"Thank  you,  dear  boy,"  said  Josephine, 
quietly,  and  slipped  into  the  inner  room.  Was 
the  whole  world  in  a  conspiracy  to  force  her  to 
believe  that  Tom  had  been  true?  First  there  was 
Rosebud,  drawing  a  strict  line,  and  unwaveringly 
adhering  to  it,  between  the  desire  of  the  stock- 
raisers  and  the  deed  of  the  ruffian,  LaDue.  If 
it  was  true  that  Jack's  murder  had  been  without 
the  consent,  the  knowledge,  or  even  the  acquies 
cence  of  the  cattlemen,  then  had  she  indeed  mis 
judged  her  brother's  friend,  and  the  attitude  of 
accuser  that  she  had  assumed  toward  him  could 
have  no  justification  in  what  had  seemed  like 

[338] 


THE   HOMESTEADER 

the  working  out  of  the  will  of  the  master  mind 
by  the  hand  of  an  inferior.  If,  as  Rosebud  be 
lieved,  LaDue  had  not  even  the  excuse  of  doing 
as  he  had  done  with  the  fanatical  idea  that  he  was 
acting  with  the  tacit  consent  of  the  ranchmen,  but 
had  made  use  of  their  disaffection  as  a  cloak  to 
hide  his  own  infamy,  hoping  then  to  curry  favor 
with  which  to  ward  off  prosecution,  then,  indeed, 
how  could  her  brother's  friend  have  foreseen  the 
terrible  tragedy?  There  was  Rosebud,  too,  with 
a  few  telling  words,  making  the  inestimable  part 
Tom  had  played  in  obtaining  Henry's  confes 
sion  and  his  incomparable  heroism  in  going  forth 
to  meet  and  arrest,  alone,  a  desperate  outlaw  at 
bay,  afterwards  slain  in  self-defence,  stand  out 
in  the  light  of  their  real  greatness.  And  now  here 
was  Louis,  in  his  innocent  prattle,  telling  of  yet 
other  great  things  that  had  been  done  for  her  by 
a  cattleman,  for  her  who  was  a  homesteader. 
Had  her  quick  woman's  suspicion  been  ignoble, 
after  all?  When,  dressed  for  riding,  she  re 
turned  to  the  boy,  she  asked  straightforwardly: 

"Why  did  not  Mr.  Burrington  tell  me  about 
these  things,  Louis?" 

"  Men  don't  brag,  Josephine,"  replied  Louis, 
airily.  "Just  the  same,"  he  added,  plaintively, 

[339] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

"  I  do  wish  I  had  n't  promised  not  to  tell  you 
about  the  gulch.  My  telling  would  n't  so  much 
matter.  I  'm  not  a  man  —  yet.  But  Tom  's  so 
squeamish  about  some  things.  However,  I  prom 
ised,  and  so  you  need  n't  ask  me  to  tell  because 
I  am  not  going  to.  Are  you  all  ready,  Jo 
sephine?" 

It  was  late  Fall  before  she  saw  Tom  Burring- 
ton.  He  came  riding  over  to  the  new  homestead 
one  still  day  in  November  when  the  haze  of  In 
dian  Summer  rested  lightly  and  dreamily  over 
the  gaunt  outlines  of  stripped  wood  and  hill  and 
plain. 

"  I  could  n't  bear  it  any  longer,"  he  told  her, 
gravely,  as  his  big  figure  crossed  the  threshold 
of  the  tiny  house  where  she  and  Rosebud  were 
so  intrepidly  working  out  the  details  of  their 
resolution.  Unlike  the  cabin  of  the  Broken  Key, 
this  house  was  built  away  from  the  timbered  dis 
trict,  up  on  the  grass  lands  just  under  the  hills, 
and  commanded  a  far  outlook  down  the  valley. 
Josephine  had  a  dread  of  the  woods  of  late,  and 
so  had  builded  in  the  open. 

"Rosebud  is  out  with  the  cattle,"  said  Jose 
phine,  nervously.  "She  will  be  sorry  to  miss  you." 

"I  did  not  come  to  see  Rosebud.    I  came  to 

[340] 


THE   HOMESTEADER 

see  you,  Josephine,"  said  Tom,  unequivocally. 
He  would  not  sit  down,  but  stood  straight  and 
determined  before  her. 

"Before  you  say  anything,"  began  Josephine, 
earnestly,  "I  want  to  ask  you  something.  You 
must  tell  me  the  truth  this  time,  Mr.  Burrington. 
Nothing  but  the  truth  will  count  now.  You  did 
not  shoot  at  a  wolf  that  time  —  in  the  gulch.  Tell 
me,  what  did  you  shoot  at?"  She  lifted  her  great, 
serious,  brown  eyes  to  him,  questioningly. 

"I  shot  at  a  man,  Josephine,"  he  responded, 
simply. 

Josephine  began  to  tremble  violently,  uncon 
trollably.  She  had  grown  very  pale.  She  had 
been  trying  hard  to  prepare  herself  for  this  reve 
lation  ever  since  Louis'  innocent  half-betrayal 
on  that  day  when  he  had  ridden  over  to  help  her 
and  Rosebud  move;  but  this  indisputable  prov 
ing  of  the  brutal  truth  found  and  left  her  for  the 
moment  completely  unnerved.  She  had  been  so 
light-hearted  that  evening  riding  down  into  the 
gulch.  And  now  to  think  what  had  lurked  for 
her  in  that  shadowed  little  washout  up  on  the 
western  wall !  She  had  been  so  unconscious  of  any 
hostile  presence,  and  new  to  think  what  might 
have  been!  She  shivered  again  and  again. 

[341] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

"Who  was  the  man?"  she  asked,  tremulously. 

"Henry  Hoffman." 

"Did  you  know  him?'* 

"Not  then.  I  found  out  for  sure  afterwards. 
Who  told  you,  Josephine?" 

"Never  mind  that  now.  No  one  told  me.  I 
have  been  thinking,  that  is  all.  And  you  think 
he  was  going  to  kill  me?"  she  asked  with  an  ef 
fort,  though  she  was  fast  regaining  self-control. 

"I  thought  so  —  yes.  He  told  me  afterwards, 
in  his  confession,  that  he  never  could  have  done 
it.  Sometimes,  I  believe  that  he  spoke  the  truth, 
Josephine,  and  that  he  never  could  have  done  it." 

"Did  Jack  know?" 

"Yes,  I  told  him.    He  did  not  believe  it." 

"Then  you  did  not  keep  anything  back  from 
my  brother — he  knew  everything?" 

"I  think  he  knew  everything  that  I  knew." 

"And  yet  he  stayed?" 

"And  yet  he  stayed." 

"I  wish  you  had  told  me,  Mr.  Burrington," 
said  Josephine,  wistfully.  "  If  you  had  told  me, 
Jack  might  be  here  to-day." 

"It  was  so  horrible,  Josephine,"  he  said,  "and 
we  could  not  be  sure.  It  was  Jack's  wish  as 
well  as  mine  that  you  be  not  told." 

[342] 


THE   HOMESTEADER 

Never  again  was  this  subject  of  what  might 
have  been  mentioned  between  these  two.  Many 
things  might  have  been  different  had  they  fore 
seen  or  had  they  had  a  better  understanding  then 
of  some  signs  that  were  so  easy  to  read  —  after 
wards;  but  they  had  not  foreseen  and  they  had 
not  understood,  so  they  tried  to  forget. 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

'  Will  you  forgive  me?  "  she  asked,  simply.  "  I 
was  altogether  wrong.  Let  us  be  friends  again." 

"Why,  Josephine,"  he  stammered,  his  face 
flushing,  suddenly,  "why,  Josephine,  I  —  I  — 
forgive  you?  Why,  I  love  you.  Didn't  you 
know  that?  I  came  to  tell  you.  Look  at  me, 
dear,  and  tell  me  that  you  love  me  and  that  you 
will  come  to  me.  Do,  dear." 

She  did  look  up,  all  her  heart  in  her  honest 
eyes. 

"I  do  love  you,  Tom,  but — "  she  began,  when 
Tom  kissed  her  and  the  pressure  of  his  lips  upon 
hers  silenced  what  she  would  have  said  further. 
His  pulses  were  leaping,  his  eyes  shone. 

"You  must  leave  this  lonely  shack  at  once  — 
to-morrow — or  next  day — next  week  at  the 
very  latest,"  he  whispered,  holding  her  close,  "and 
come  to  the  Seven-up  with  me.  We  are  all  ready 

[343] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

for  you  there  —  oh,  Josephine,  Josephine,  I  love 
you  so!  " 

"You  must  let  me  finish  what  I  started  to  tell 
you  a  moment  ago,"  said  Josephine,  resolutely. 

"Very  well,"  said  Tom,  releasing  her  and  fold 
ing  his  arms  as  if  that  were  the  only  way  he  could 
trust  himself  to  keep  them  to  himself.  "Proceed. 
What  were  you  going  to  say  when  I  interrupted 
you  so  rudely?" 

"Jack,"  she  continued,  steadily,  "had  set  his 
heart  on  our  possessing  this  tract  of  bottom  land 
on  the  river.  I  shall  not  disappoint  him.  We 
dreamed  many  dreams  together,  Jack  and  I.  He 
did  his  share  toward  bringing  about  their  ful 
filment.  I  have  mine  yet  to  do.  A  little  while 
ago,  I  shrank  from  my  part.  It  is  different  now. 
I  shall  live  on  my  land  as  Jack  lived  on  his  until 
it  is  mine.  I  shall  have  earned  it  twice  over,  I 
think.  I  think  that  no  one  can  find  fault  with 
me  and  call  me  a  land-grabber  when  I  —  bring 
it  to  you.  We  paid  for  it  with  blood.  Let  no 
one  think  to  cheat  me  out  of  what  has  been  so 
dearly  bought." 

"No  one  would  wish  to  do  that,  Josephine. 
The  stock-raisers  are  horror-stricken  over  — 

[344] 


THE    HOMESTEADERS 

what  happened.  We  have  done  some  grumbling, 
it  is  true,  in  regard  to  homesteaders  in  general, 
for  settlement  means  that  we  can  no  longer  let 
our  large  herds  roam  where  they  will;  it  means 
that  we  will  no  longer  have  thousands  of  acres 
of  free  pasture;  it  means  that  we  will  have  to 
give  up  the  vocation  that  we  love  so  well.  But 
however  much  the  stock-raisers  have  disliked  to 
see  the  homesteaders  come  into  the  country,  they 
have  never  thought  of  taking  arbitrary  means 
to  keep  them  out.  The  feeling  against  home 
steaders  that  exists  in  the  cattle  country  had 
nothing  to  do  with  what  happened.  No  one 
would  wish  to  deprive  you  of  your  homestead, 
Josephine,  but  you  cannot  live  here  alone.  You 
must  marry  me  now.  Let  the  old  claim  go.  You 
have  Jack's  —  that  is  enough.  TsTo,  Josephine, 
I  cannot  consent  to  your  staying  here  alone,"  he 
said,  with  a  new  ring  of  authority  in  his  voice. 

"I  am  not  alone,"  she  answered,  with  unchang 
ing  purpose,  "and  Rosebud  is  faithful." 

"At  least  you  will  commute  in  eight  months?" 
he  urged,  realizing  the  utter  futility  of  further 
effort  to  turn  her  from  her  inflexible  purpose. 

"Let  us  not  cross  the  bridge  until  we  get  to 
it,"  she  said,  demurely,  with  which  unsatisfactory 

[345] 


THE   HOMESTEADERS 

statement  he  was  forced  to  be  content  for  the  time 
being. 

"Just  two  girls  alone,"  protested  Tom,  return 
ing  to  his  original  plaint,  unreconciled.  "I  can 
not  bear  to  think  of  it." 

"You  will  come  to  see  us  sometimes,  won't  you, 
Tom?  "  she  asked  smiling. 


THE  END 


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